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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778629">Knights and Lords</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Slime/pseuds/Water_Slime'>Water_Slime (Fire_Slime)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Long, Harsh Road [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Canon-Typical Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, Drama, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Redemption, Reincarnation, Second Chances, Slow Build, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, bookverse, mergeverse, warning: gaslighting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:28:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>145,847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778629</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Slime/pseuds/Water_Slime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is fighting a war on two fronts.  The first, more obvious one, the one he'd expected and planned for, is against Riddle.<br/>He hadn't seen the war against the Ministry (more specifically, Umbridge) coming, however, and is taken by surprise.<br/>He'll just have to adapt.  It's a strong suit of his, right?  He'll teach his fellow classmates how to defend themselves.</p><p>But Umbridge and Riddle aren't even the end of it.  Let's see, he still has to;<br/>learn occlumency<br/>follow up with the centaurs<br/>learn how wizarding prophecy works<br/>...and figure out how to help heal Sirius</p><p>He can accomplish at least some of those things this year, right?  Or, he can get dragged along on Sirius's quest to find out what happened to his brother, and uncover the beginnings of the truth behind what makes Riddle "immortal".  That works, too.</p><p>...Now, what was that important thing he was forgetting...?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Loki (Marvel)/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Relationship, Sirius Black &amp; Harry Potter, minor Hermione Granger/Thor (Marvel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Long, Harsh Road [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1500944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. It's a Small World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A followup on events from Book IV.  And then, The Dursleys get a visitor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's a few reasons why Book V is a popular one for crossovers. First, there's a war brewing. That's always promising. Then, too, there's Umbridge. Seeing how crossover characters handle her is always fun. And, there's also the D.A., and Sirius's death.</p><p>There was a long hiatus between me reading books 4 and 5, in which I occasionally reread the first four books, and changed my mind about a lot of characters (and whined about a lot of plot holes, and perceived plot holes).</p><p>Book 5 was okay, and it felt enough like the other books for me to respect it, but I never <i>liked</i> it, as I liked the others, for however long I liked any of them.</p><p>It was the last book to fit those qualifications. Books 6 and 7 bored me to tears.</p><p>In other words: books 1-4 are in one category, book 5 is in its own category, and I'll barely acknowledge books 6-7. Incoming divergence?</p><p>These first few chapters are the last I wrote before reviews for <i>Endgame</i> started coming out, so they've been edited less to reduce the influence of it.</p><p>(Sorry I'm late. My computer hates me. On the plus side, my risky bypass worked!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rita Skeeter had been keeping very quiet following Hermione's expertly-handled blackmail. Fred and George were being very cautious with the five hundred galleons Harry had forced upon them under threat of hexing at the end of the year.</p><p>Hermione had still been digesting all the news when they'd left Hogwarts for the year. She'd pretended that it wasn't eating away at her, and her primary focus of discussion, after making plans for the coming war, of course, were Dumbledore's speech, and Minister Fudge's threat to interfere at Hogwarts.</p><p>Harry was alone at Number Four, Privet Drive. This year, he was not to have the protection of Sirius, who needed to prioritise cleaning out Grimmauld Place, to make it safe for human habitation. Defences were being added to make it the ultimate headquarters. Sirius had kept his promise to keep Harry up-to-date on goings-on in the Order. Remus, too, often sent hints and updates on Order business. They weren't supposed to—Dumbledore had given out orders—but they were not about to trifle with their old friend, or to deny their best friend's son of knowledge he needed to stay afloat after recent events. Sirius took pains to remind him that he'd much rather even that Harry were here at Grimmauld Place with him.</p><p><em>No one else is as good of company as you are</em>, he wrote. <em>Although we do have your brother over here, now. He's driving even Remus up the walls with worry. Just hang tight: we'll come get you as soon as there's a ready excuse.</em></p><p>With Sirius stuck in his hated childhood home, Harry's only defence, such as it was, was the hidden Sword of Gryffindor, which he'd taken to carrying with him everywhere even before Dumbledore had called him to the office to, essentially, okay the idea.</p><p>To think he'd expected to have it confiscated! But, it seemed that, for once, they were agreed about what was in his best interests. It might be the last time they ended up agreeing, too.</p><p>Hermione, being Hermione, was sticking to the spirit and letter of the law, and refusing to tell him anything important, even encoded, as Sirius and Remus's letters were. Part of it might be that she didn't know how to use ciphers. Most of it was, doubtless, a rather unquestioning view of authority. Dumbledore Had Spoken, and thus Hermione refused to disobey. Of course, Sirius and Remus suggested that, most likely, information on the actual proceedings of the Order were much less widely-known than the Weasley brood (and Hermione) thought. Harry was probably better informed than any of them.</p><p>This thought was of some reassurance to him, and the Sword of Gryffindor made for a reassuring weight at his side. He brought it with him, hidden in a scabbard, and then under a thick covering of magic that rendered it invisible. To any outside observer, he would seem utterly defenceless, and he was still rather shorter and scrawnier than anyone else his age. Despite that, his reputation preceded him, and none dared trifle with "that delinquent Potter boy".</p><p>As per Remus and Sirius's request, he sent very few letters to Order Headquarters (aka Grimmauld Place), waiting for Dumbledore to call him thither. This prospect grew progressively less likely as summer went on.</p><p>His mind churned over the possible motives of both Dumbledore and Riddle, wherever either of them were. He had never been more tempted to subscribe to <em>The Daily Prophet</em>, but it was hard to trust the accuracy of any newspaper that published Rita Skeeter. The most honest thing she'd printed in her life was her sordid history of Tom Riddle, which the Ministry seemed determined to somehow try to incorporate into their "he's most definitely dead" theory.</p><p>It was, of course, seventy-five percent fiction. Rita must have wanted to write romance novels, but failed, and turned a certain flair and ability to tug at her readers' emotions to journalism, instead. Why else had she wasted so much time pursuing every "romantic interest" Riddle had ever "had"?</p><p>Still, it had been good for a laugh, and he'd needed those. It was his entirely selfish justification for foisting off the entirety of his winnings from the Triwizard Tournament onto the Twins. The money in the family vault would more than pay for his schooling. Sirius Black had named him his sole heir (with exceptions made, in the rare event that someone with his reputation somehow managed to have a child). And Harry planned on going into the auror field once he'd defeated Riddle, anyway. Offing a Dark Lord had to qualify as field training, if nothing else, along with all those end-of-year adventures…and, of course, the Tournament itself….</p><p>He kept his eyes and ears open for any hint as to what Riddle might be doing, any suspicious thing that the Order, being firmly entrenched as it was in the Wizarding World (Jealous? Who, he?) might have missed or overlooked.</p><p>There was nothing but an exceptionally dry, hot summer, the sort that raised fire hazard warnings as red flags across the country. It was all very humdrum, mundane, boring current events, at least as far as semi-local news went. There were plenty of wars and natural disasters out further afield, but <em>this</em> particular war was being fought quietly. Fudge had decided that Dumbledore was suddenly after his office. He was fortifying his political barricades, and ignoring the looming hurricane.</p><p>There were smart politicians, and then there were idiots. It couldn't be denied that Fudge fit that latter camp perfectly. And, apparently (Sirius had broached this <em>very</em> carefully, in his letters), the <em>Prophet</em> had launched a smear campaign. This was why freedom of the press was so important: the <em>Prophet</em> was in the Ministry's pocket. What Fudge said, went. And now, it was putting all the non-pureblood supremacists in Wizarding Britain in danger.</p><p>Trapped though he was at Number Four, Harry turned his hand almost immediately to the important pursuits of planning for two different wars. Stephen had the sense not to check in on him, while he was staying at the Dursleys…or, perhaps, Harry's future self had never shown him the location of Number Four, which seemed a very good idea. He could safely spend his time practising the <em>other</em> sort of magic, making plans for war, and reanalysing previous conclusions about Sirius, and how to treat the aftereffects of Azkaban. Sirius might have found himself a girlfriend, were his first priority not seeing this war through to its end.</p><p>Dumbledore had left Harry to stew here at Number Four, perhaps waiting for him to reach a boiling point (why were old men the most inscrutable?), without ever once contacting him, or indeed, allowing anyone else to contact him. It was a far cry from his behaviour only last month, and Harry spent his free time trying to parse it out. He had little time to spare for the obvious meanings behind his nightmares of the graveyard, and strange dreams concerning a subterranean network of corridors, and a black door.</p><p>He would later think that he could doubtless afford to be forgiven for forgetting about practising occlumency, when he had so many other important things to think on. Mother had resumed teaching him how to heal, and he was continuing to deepen and strengthen his magical reserves. He kept up any number of easily-overlooked spells at any given time, including in his sleep, which made him rather more tired than he would ordinarily have been, even without the nightmares to consider.</p><p>All told, he barely gave the Dursleys any heed at all, and they were…somewhat discouraged from their usual strategies to keep him in line by their memories of Harry's dogfather (who totally deserved a "World's best Dogfather" mug, if ever Harry found one). He'd made quite an impression on them, it seemed.</p><p>"Where's that criminal freak? Did he grow tired of you?"</p><p>Well, most of them were cowed by him, still. Some of them were too stupid to understand basic concepts.</p><p>"He's cleaning out his old house. It's a rather dangerous place, filled with far worse than dirt and mould. It fights back," he said, ignoring all the other nonsense Dudley had packed into his questions. He might not even realise that the insults were there, although he'd historically been good at recognising their presence, at least. It seemed that no one was too stupid to realise when they were being blatantly insulting and offensive. Which didn't mean he'd put it past Dudley to be the exception.</p><p>There was a certain confidence in Sirius's love for him that he was unused to. It was the love of a parent for his child, which was unconditional, everlasting. Of course, Harry was also one of Sirius's closest friends, and one of his old teachers, which complicated matters, but usually, that familial affection won out over everything else. Sirius was his third father, and, as he was the Thor of this world, complete with that ultra-masculinity that meant that he could afford to be more open about emotions, without people looking down on him, softer.</p><p>It wasn't James's fault that he was absent from Harry's life; he might have gone on to be an amazing dad; Sirius seemed to think so, and Remus agreed, but then, absence made the heart grow fonder, as the saying went. Sirius was fulfilling that role in James's stead. And Harry had no memory of ever meeting James; his knowledge was all in fragments, in those few minutes of <em>Priori Incantatem</em>, in the few seconds before Riddle had slain James.</p><p>He'd had a biological father in his past life—that father had most likely never wanted him, or he would have sought him out, retrieved him, fought for him, as Lily Evans had fought for him, as James Potter had fought for him, for different reasons.</p><p>Which meant that there was only a third candidate for father figure. The most controversial, but Thor had forced him to come around. Different societies. Different times. And a king could never afford to behave in ways his subjects were free to humour.</p><p>Harry'd forgiven him. But, he was still on the fence about how good of a father Odin was. That was probably petty. That was doubtless unfair. But here, at Number Four, he was fortunate if his mind pursued such innocuous thoughts.</p><p>All of his attention was on the coming wars, and what remained was divided amongst the other things he valued, things that might better be considered preparation for the wars. He had little attention to spare for the Dursleys. He tuned out the forewarning that they were having another business guest over for dinner. He had better things to think on. Of course such a visitation would happen whilst Sirius was away; convenient for the Dursleys, although it made treating him as they had before the sudden reappearance of his dogfather an irresistible lure.</p><p>They vacillated between wanting to kick him out onto the street for the duration of their guest's visit, and locking him back in his bedroom, with orders to pretend that he didn't exist. The neighbours were more likely to notice the former than the latter—everyone was afraid of "that delinquent Potter boy", and thus they kept tabs on him. Better to lock him up in his room.…</p><p>Let him check his calendar. Let's see…yes, his birthday was just around the corner. This seemed to happen a lot. Only his eleventh birthday had been attended by <em>good</em> news. His twelfth had carried with it threats of expulsion (when he was to spend the day upstairs in his room, pretending that he didn't exist, and making no noise, as they were favouring for this year), his thirteenth had been the worst, with the arrival of Aunt Marge. Sirius had broken the rule by taking him to London, but with him gone, life fell back into its old habits.</p><p>And, he was going to spend this next birthday (was there a need to ask who the visitor was, or when he was expected to come? No.) up here, making no noise, and pretending he didn't exist.</p><p>Unless he were trapped outdoors, in the middle of a heatwave. The Dursleys still seemed determined to kill him off. Perhaps he should be grateful to be trapped upstairs in his room (they mightn't lock the doors, and in case of emergency, he could pick the lock). But it only made him wish that he were even at the wholly unwelcoming Grimmauld Place, with his <em>family</em>, instead. What was Dumbledore doing?</p><p>He did not ask who their visitor was. That turned out to be a mistake. He should have realised by now that life loved laughing at him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The last thing he'd expected—although in retrospect it was the <em>first</em> thing that he should have expected—was to open the door to the house to go out to do his chores—a full <em>day</em> before their mysterious guest was to arrive, to find him standing on the front porch, fist poised to knock. He must have some sort of aversion to doorbells, was Harry's rather inane first thought.</p><p>Then he glanced at their guest, and thought that it was someone he ought to recognise, which instantly made him wary, thinking of Death Eaters and wars and CONSTANT VIGILANCE!, as he'd heard at least ten times in the week that Moody—the <em>real</em> Moody—spent at Hogwarts, before they took the train back to King's Cross.</p><p>Harry took a step backwards, stumbling slightly, wrong-footed at the unexpected encounter. The man smirked, and tried to push his way inside. Harry regained his physical and mental equilibrium, and casually grabbed onto the doorframe, to brace himself.</p><p>He identified the visitor, and his body locked into place for a moment. <em>Impossible</em>, his mind tried to tell him. But, it couldn't be impossible, or it wouldn't be happening. Although, really, this could only happen to him.</p><p>"Are you the business associate due to arrive for dinner on July Twenty-Eighth?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. You would think that he didn't recognise the man at all, but he did. Some people are hard to forget. This man went out of his way to ensure that no one <em>could</em> forget him. Still, Harry pretended not to recognise him. He was himself just as famous in the Wizarding World. That made them equals, no matter what anyone else thought.</p><p>Well, that and something else. "—because if you are, I would suggest that you check your calendar, or your planner, as you've mistaken today's date. You are a day early, with my apologies to you."</p><p>He was trying very, very hard to be polite. And it had absolutely nothing at all to do with the Dursleys. His mind was fixated on his goals, as it had been all summer. Two wars he was planning for, and where others might see an unexpected setback, an obstacle, a wrench in the works, he saw an opportunity…if he just knew how to exploit it. He was, however, a source of localised chaos. He was best at winging it. He could do this. He wished Ron or Sirius were here, but you couldn't have everything.</p><p>The man pulled out a cell phone, boxy and buly, from where he had somehow stowed it in his pocket, peering down at it, as if unconcerned by either what Harry had said, or his own audacity. Harry was sure that, no matter how huge and ungainly the thing was, it was several years ahead of any other model, of anything that you could buy.</p><p>"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked, with an arrogant smirk, as if to say, <em>We can do this the easy way, or the hard way</em>.</p><p>"No," Harry said. "Please leave." He started to close the door, thinking that its solid thickness might force the billionaire back. Worth a shot, anyway.</p><p>Stark looked up from his phone at that, a brief flash of surprise crossing his face. "'<em>No</em>'? Do you know who I am, kid?"</p><p>He hated being talked down to. And, that smug entitlement reminded him too much of Malfoy. "Yes," he said, the politeness gone. "I just don't care. Please come back tomorrow, Mr. Stark. Or not at all, if that fits your schedule better."</p><p>And he closed the door in Tony Stark's face.</p>
<hr/><p>Upon reflection, that might not have been the best choice for how to deal with the man, but he had to admit that Stark had gotten under his skin, as he seemed to do with just about everyone. Privately, Harry suspected that the Avengers had taken so long to unite together owing <em>just</em> to Stark's ability to try the patience of a saint, which was essentially what Captain America was. However, he should have asked Ron more questions while he'd had the chance. But, how was <em>he</em> to know that Stark would show up on his front doorstep this summer? The man was <em>American</em>! He hadn't thought their paths would cross until he'd had a chance to finalise his plans and begin to set them into motion.</p><p>Despite knowing that Uncle Vernon would be furious if it indeed happened, he couldn't help hoping that he'd somehow ruined Uncle Vernon's business prospects. Suppose Stark were their business associate, and suppose he was so offended that he never showed up on the morrow. But, it was hard to imagine someone like Stark holding such a grudge. He was the human embodiment of the phrase "water off a duck's back" as far as Harry could tell. Of course, ducks didn't routinely try to force their way into people's homes with only half an invitation—at least, as far as Harry knew.</p><p>He sat up in his room, disregarding his uncle's instructions to make no noise and pretend he didn't exist, deciding that he could work on battle plans, instead. While keeping up a magic light, at that.</p><p>But, before he could get settled or too absorbed in his thoughts, there was the heavy thud he recognised as footsteps on the stairs—his uncle's heavy footfalls—and he froze, thinking of the summer before second year, when Dobby had tried to get him expelled from Hogwarts. For want of a better plan, he called off the hanging light, and willed his plans invisible. He knew better than to assume that there was <em>time</em> to hide them better. He would be able to track down his own magic, should they attempt an escape.</p><p>He hid them just in time, as Uncle Vernon flung open the door, with an abrupt violence that had Harry flinching, as before a raised fist.</p><p>"What have we said about answering the door, boy?" Uncle Vernon demanded in a towering fury that had Harry shrinking back automatically. He didn't flinch at Hermione, or Ron, or Sirius, or Remus, or even Ginny, anymore, but he knew them. He trusted them. He cared about them, in different ways. They were family.</p><p>This man was an enemy, a danger, a threat, and Harry had limited means by which to protect himself. He had the Sword of Gryffindor. As a last, desperate measure, he had the <em>other</em> magic. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, or to it, particularly as second year had informed Uncle Vernon that he would be expelled if any more magic were performed here at Privet Drive. What would he think if the letter of expulsion didn't come?</p><p>Still….</p><p>"I didn't answer the door," he managed to say. He was almost calm about it, too. "I merely opened the door to go out to do the gardening, and someone was on the other side. Your business associate, I presume."</p><p>He should have just made the assumption. If he'd been wrong, Uncle Vernon would have dismissed it as him being "mentally subnormal" as Aunt Marge had said two years ago. If he were right, and he rather suspected that it <em>was</em> right, he would be showcasing that he'd paid attention to Uncle Vernon's debriefing (although he hadn't), which <em>might</em> incline him to lenity.</p><p>Of course, he could always claim that at his "freak school", news concerning non-magical celebrities, or even images of them, were incredibly hard to come by. He needn't mention the special moving ink of wizarding newspapers.</p><p>"Well, it seems you've made a good impression on him, and he demanded to know where you were. He wouldn't take any excuses, so you have five minutes to make yourself at least halfway presentable before you come downstairs. And be quick about it. We can't keep him waiting."</p><p>Of course not. But, Harry was determined to milk this for all it was worth. If he'd truly "made an impression" on Tony Stark, that could be either good or bad for his coming plans. Either way, he was sure that after this night, he'd have to go back over them with new eyes. In the meantime….</p><p>Perhaps, he could get some revenge on the Dursleys, and blow off some steam, as well. He bore no malice towards Tony Stark, although he didn't think he remembered him being <em>quite</em> that arrogant (but hadn't he compared <em>Malfoy</em> to <em>Stark</em>, at their first meeting?).</p><p>Regardless of any other facts, Stark had displayed tremendous, almost <em>gryffindor</em>, amounts of courage, during the Chitauri Invasion—who else would have volunteered for that death mission that had wiped out Thanos's Chitauri army with a missile meant to obliterate New York? He didn't know how Stark would come around to having that sort of courage, but he knew that it lay in the future, particularly if he somehow managed to convince his friends not to intervene.</p><p>The Avengers were a necessary force for good in the world, an invaluable asset against <em>Thanos</em>, and—</p><p>He had no real "good" clothes—the Sunday best they'd bought at thriftstores back during their Christian phase had ceased to fit him, to the extent it ever had, years ago. His hair ranged from being "untidy" to "messier than a bird's nest", but it was currently leaning towards the former. Instead he used the time thinking hard, and hiding his battle plans, and his writing supplies.</p><p>He made sure to emerge from "his" room even before the five minutes were up, walking down the stairs slowly, to help muffle his noise, and listening hard for the dinner conversation. Mr. Stark was saying something about the Civil Rights Movement in America, and seemed a bit peeved with the Dursleys for some reason. If he could judge. Which, Stark being who he was, he doubted that he could.</p><p>Oh. He objected to the Dursleys calling Harry "boy". Something about someone called "Jim Crow"? Who was "Rhodey"? Or was that "roadie"?</p><p>Oh well. It probably wasn't <em>that</em> important. He closed his eyes, bracing himself, for a few seconds, before walking into the dining room with a sort of silent grace that he pretty much shared only with Dumbledore and Riddle.</p><p>(Happy thoughts, right?)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One of the pitfalls of posting this fic in individual books is that, if I have problems with my computer, say, when it's time to post a new book, I have nowhere to leave you a message.<br/>I'm just going to have to hope that that somehow never happens again.  Here, have this a bit earlier than the folks on FF.net.  It's the least I can do....<br/>I'll post another chapter on Friday, as catch-up.<br/>Okay, well, I could have sworn that I hit the post button, but instead I'm late.  I'll give you Friday's chapter early, though.  Unless I screw that up, too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dinner with the WHOLE Family</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tony Stark and Harry bond over insulting the Dursleys.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Really, this chapter and the previous go together, so it's just as well I'm posting them in the same week?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tony Stark knew things. If you're expecting an exhaustive list of what, or even a boring one of a few technical things he is credited with having known back in the nineties, we apologise in advance. The important thing is that he knew that many people were two-faced, and that went double for anyone styling themselves as potential "business associates". And there was only one thing you could do to find out these people's true colours: violate the norms.</p>
<p>That was why he showed up on their front steps at ten o'clock in the morning the day before dinner was scheduled. Which, in turn, was the only reason that he made the acquaintance of their nephew, Harry Potter.</p>
<p>The first impressions that the Dursleys made were mixed. Their lawns were the greenest on the block, suggesting that they'd just completely ignored the watering restrictions he'd heard about on the news. The garden was well-kept, filled with flowers in full bloom, and bushes and flowering shrubs. It was pretty much your standard garden, different from the rest of those on the block by…well, pretty much just by how well-maintained it was. A shiny new automobile stood in the driveway, suggesting that the family were well-off, if the pristine condition of their cookie-cutter house weren't evidence enough. While not made of money, he could tell that the family was wealthy.</p>
<p>When he arrived, he expected the usual stunned few moments of silence (even being fairly new to the scene, himself, he'd had to deal with his father's renown all his life, and both of their reputations tended to precede him), followed by much bland obsequiousness, as he was ushered in, with the greatest deference imaginable, as if he were royalty, or something.</p>
<p>When the boy who answered the door denied him entry, he at first thought that he somehow <em>had not been</em> identified. But, without having to introduce himself, the boy nevertheless addressed him by name. Besides, what trendy fifteen-year-old <em>hadn't</em> heard of someone so hip?</p>
<p>Then again, what trendy fifteen-year-old wore clothes that hung off them in rolls, with a neckline that only clever use of pins kept from falling right down his torso and off? Or long, messy black hair tied back in a ponytail? (Long hair was out of fashion. It was. Even if he <em>did</em> know a few people who had it.)</p>
<p>The boy's appearance, in and of itself, was a bit of a surprise, but not as much as his complete dismissal of one of the most powerful individuals in the world. Not to mention the way he'd shut the door in Stark's face. Just who did this kid think he was?</p>
<p>But, it was more interesting than anything he'd had any hopes of encountering during his stay in Britain. He was always careful to be out of the country for the months of June and July, where between parades and commercials, you couldn't escape the sudden ubiquity of Captain America. They hired actors to play him in commercials advertising this or that product, especially Fourth of July sales. It wasn't that he <em>hated</em> Captain America, exactly…although he did perhaps resent him, just a little, for being his father's favourite person. That was supposed to be <em>he</em>.</p>
<p>So, avoidance. Best attempted by venturing to a different hemisphere (ideally the Eastern Hemisphere, but merely the Southern would do, in a pinch), and staying there the entire time. These were his months for traveling the world, trying new things, and bringing poor old Obie to tears with his recklessness.</p>
<p>It was not a break that was supposed to be devoted to mysteries, but he could always take a change of pace. He was flexible. Just who <em>was</em> that kid, anyway?</p>
<p>Yes, he had an ego. But, his pride was not a thing easily damaged. He'd pushed the kid's buttons, to see what he could get away with, and was kind of impressed by the way that the kid had pushed back.</p>
<p>Literally.</p>
<p>He fumed for a few minutes, but he'd gotten over it by the time he'd reached his hotel room. He'd already discovered one of the Dursleys best-kept secrets—not that he'd learn that until the next day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next day was filled with tedium, the dinner being the closest thing he had to something to look forward to. Despite the events of the day before, he arrived a few minutes early. A few minutes was not the same thing as "over a day". The housewife seemed a bit flustered at his early arrival, but she welcomed him in, anyway, with as much bowing and scraping as you could possibly wish for. The husband was worse, heartily attempting to pretend that the two of them were friends, even though they'd just met. Couldn't that firm, Grunnings, have sent him to someone else? But, apparently, this man was the one they'd trusted to sell people on their ideas.</p>
<p>And he had a son, who did a very poor job of buttering him up (he received such compliments all the time; he was a man of wealth and power, after all). He seemed to have a genuine respect and interest in the weapons…which…was a bit disturbing. The boy was, what, fifteen?</p>
<p>Conspicuous in his absence was the boy from yesterday. He couldn't have gained three hundred pounds overnight, which defeated any silly argument that the boy had just dyed his hair and was actually the kid (if about the right age, at least) currently kissing up to him at the dinner table. Petunia had cooked some sort of culinary masterpiece involving stuffed roast chicken, so there was plenty of food to go around, and it was about dinnertime, of course. There were even five chairs associated with the table, one of which stood empty. It lay at the far end, away from all of the others.</p>
<p>Now, of course, it <em>was</em> possible that the boy had only been a visitor, himself, but…a visitor who had the authority to shut him out of the house? A visitor who knew about this meeting beforehand, enough to correct Stark's "mistake"? No. Something more was going on here. If the business world was cutthroat, it was only because the real world was just the same. A polite and friendly façade concealed sinister motivations (or at least, the intent to take advantage). He could make associations with people, alliances, but he didn't trust the people in the business world. More plausible than a random visitation by some intruder was the idea that the boy who had shut him out was a permanent resident of the household, which raised the question: where was he?</p>
<p>That kid's location became something of an assessment of this family, itself. Dudley's clothes were expensive, although not custom-tailored (and it was hard to find clothes for…a boy of his <em>girth</em>, anyway). Dudley's parents were equally well-dressed. Either they'd put their life savings into this deal, and they usually wore hand-me-downs like that boy, or….</p>
<p>Hmm. Hand-me-downs. Dudley-sized ones.</p>
<p>The first true red flag was when he'd broached the topic to them, with his usual deliberate casual carelessness.</p>
<p>"What about your other son?" he asked. All activity in the dining room ceased, complete with Vernon's progress carving the chicken. Oh, <em>come on</em>.</p>
<p>"Dudley is our only son," Petunia said, at last. "He's my pride and joy, smart, and handsome, and popular. I'm sure he'll grow up to—"</p>
<p>"Your nephew, then. Or cousin—the one with the black hair," he said, looking down at his phone, but glancing up when none of them responded, as if they'd been frozen, snapshots trapped in time.</p>
<p>Vernon Dursley went a fascinating shade of violet at this, all the colour draining from his face before flooding with a livid lilac.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid you must have been mistaken, sir," he said, at last, with a very tight smile that was more of a grimace. "We live here quite by ourselves."</p>
<p>Petunia nodded vigorously. Dudley had pulled out a Gameboy, and was glancing furtively between the screen and his parents.</p>
<p>They just had to make themselves more suspicious by the minute, didn't they? At this point, he was almost inclined to suspect that they'd murdered the boy he'd met yesterday, and were now trying to hide it. Just how long did it take for the smell of decay to fill the air in weather this humid? Well, he'd look it up later. Maybe call the cops, or at least Child Protective Services—they <em>did</em> have those in Britain, right?</p>
<p>"Really? Whom do you suggest I met yesterday, then? I'd be very worried if I were you, about a burglar knowing so many of the personal details of your life. He did mention our meeting today, and—"</p>
<p>"That boy—" growled Vernon, in a grating rumble.</p>
<p>"May I ask why you were here a day early, Mr. Stark?" asked Petunia, trying to play peacemaker—or to silence her husband.</p>
<p>"Mistook the day. I'm sure you know the feeling. Such an important business deal, and all." His eyes narrowed when even this quasi-flattery didn't lift their spirits. And Vernon had accidentally betrayed that he had at least a sneaking suspicion as to whom it was that he had met yesterday.</p>
<p>"So, you <em>do</em> know whom I'm talking about, then?" he said, with the sort of casual levity that let him take over a conversation by steamrolling over anyone who would otherwise have been able to interrupt. "I'd like to thank him for setting me straight. He lives here, right? Would you mind bringing him out here? Come to think of it, why isn't he here already? I mean, he is a member of your family, right? Don't normal families have dinner together?</p>
<p>Vernon might have been grinding his teeth. His expression was doubtless far less pleasant than he'd ever intended for it to be this evening. Stark knew the usual song and dance, and this wasn't it. He loved shaking things up. Internally, he applauded himself. This was giving him so much insight into these people.</p>
<p>"Just our nephew…disturbed, doesn't like visitors very much."</p>
<p>"He was perfectly polite to me," said Tony, in false tones of surprise. Although, it was sort of true. He <em>had</em> started off polite. And he'd had none of the cloying obsequiousness currently permeating this room. Compared to that, a bit of rudeness would be a breath of fresh air.</p>
<p>"Is there something wrong with your food, Mr. Stark? Do you need the salt, perhaps?" asked Mrs. Dursley.</p>
<p>"I'd like to speak with your nephew," he insisted, and the Dursleys exchanged a look.</p>
<p>"He doesn't handle strangers very well," Petunia insisted. "He has his good days, and his bad days, but-"</p>
<p>"Well, then let's hope today's a good day," Stark interrupted.</p>
<p>"Just <em>how</em> did you meet that boy?" Vernon snapped, and then blinked, as if surprised at the vitriol in his own voice. "I'm sorry—he's a juvenile delinquent, truth be told. Spends his school years at St. Brutus's Secure Centre. He'd probably rob you or worse…we didn't want him to bother you."</p>
<p>"I can take care of myself," Stark insisted, which wasn't true. He should probably enrol in martial arts classes, or something.</p>
<p>He noted to himself that, despite how swift Vernon was to introduce his wife and son by name, he'd yet to learn that black-haired kid's. Maybe it was because they were ashamed of his delinquency, or maybe….</p>
<p>At last, Vernon Dursley seemed to realise that Stark was not about to back down. He pushed himself back from the table, and walked out of the room. He returned a couple of minutes later, looking very magenta and purple, as if perhaps exercise—or his nephew—didn't agree with him.</p>
<p>"The f—the boy will be joining us for dinner," he said to Petunia. "You'd better add another plate."</p>
<p>Petunia pursed her lips as if this were some great inconvenience, but she gave a stiff nod, and moved away into the kitchen.</p>
<p>"You know," Tony Stark said, leaning back in his chair, and absorbing the show in a sort of morbid fascination, "where I come from, it's usually considered rude not to call people by their names. The use of the word 'boy' in particular tends to ruffle a lot of people's feathers. 'Jim Crow laws', and the antebellum South, and all. Used to use it to say that black people were like children next to us intelligent self-sufficient white people. Rhodey is black, so I'm a bit more aware of these things than your average Joe. I know things are different on this side of the pond, so just a friendly tip."</p>
<p>He gave them a cursory glance, staring at the screen of his cellphone. When he was feeling particularly bored (e.g.: right now) he'd sometimes spend some time working on his theories for an advanced form of A.I., the likes of which the world had yet to see. Call it a pet project, although it potentially had its business uses, too.</p>
<p>"My mistake, Mr. Stark. He is sometimes…difficult to handle, and it can be frustrating, trying to be a decent parent while still remaining firmly committed to our values, and his delinquency—"</p>
<p>Stark nodded, pretending to understand where they were coming from. It sounded as if they were ashamed of their nephew. Which they had every right to be, but were they too ashamed to see that he also needed some sort of moral guidance in his life? Or maybe Stark was projecting. If only his dad had—</p>
<p>"Am I interrupting something? No? Sorry to keep everyone waiting. I was enjoying a moment's freedom. Although I must say, it <em>is</em> nice to be able to eat dinner with the rest of the family like normal people."</p>
<p>Stark gave a sort of half-turn, as if apathetic, as if he hadn't fought the Dursleys for five minutes to have this meeting arranged, and glanced at the figure who had just stepped through the doorway. He <em>did</em> have long hair; it looked even longer when it wasn't tied back, and it contributed to a sort of delinquent appearance. Especially when added to the shoes that were practically in tatters, and the hand-me-downs that might as well have been made out of holes. He might have been homeless, for all the care he seemed to take with his appearance. After his absurd scruffiness, the thing that caught your attention was either his impossibly green eyes, or the giant lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.</p>
<p>"I got it the night my parents died, and I was sent to live here," the kid (whose name he still didn't know) said, without having to be asked.</p>
<p>They had something in common, which was more than could be said of him and the Dursleys. They even both had black hair, although the boy's was much messier. It was the sort of hair that you gave up on trying to tame, because hair products just seemed to slide right through it and off.</p>
<p>The kid held out a hand for him to shake. "Sorry about yesterday," he said, staring down at his museum-exhibit shoes. Did <em>Guinness</em> have a record for oldest pair of shoes still being worn? He thought those shoes would probably qualify.<br/>
The boy looked up, quite abruptly, and there was something almost feral about his expression, which made Tony rethink the virtues of inviting this kid to dinner. Perhaps he <em>was</em> a dangerous criminal.</p>
<p>But that moment of alarm passed, as the kid smirked, and Tony Stark shook his hand, in a bit of a daze at his own reaction, that moment of <em>fear</em>, and was barely aware of the handshake, or the kid's introduction, a simple, "Harry Potter. It's a pleasure."</p>
<p>The only acceptable way to react after being caught freezing up was to laugh it off as if it hadn't happened, and babble at a rapid-fire rate to call attention away from your mistake.</p>
<p>"Oh, hey, nice to meet you, kid. I'm Tony Stark, although I suppose you already knew that, since you used my name yesterday. The perils of being famous, and all, can't go anywhere without being recognised." He was dimly aware of the kid nodding sympathetically, as if he knew exactly what Stark was talking about, which was <em>impossible</em>, as he hadn't known the kid's name before he'd introduced himself. "Don't worry about yesterday. No hard feelings. Water under the bridge. Probably shouldn't have tried to get past you, but this house just looked so warm and welcoming."</p>
<p>"You <em>needed</em> to warm up? You are aware that we're in the middle of a heatwave, right?"</p>
<p>Just as he'd thought: breath of fresh air.</p>
<p>"So, you're a fellow orphan, eh? Mind if I ask what happened?"</p>
<p>Most people would be appalled at this question, and the kid's fists clenched under the table as if trying to seem cool and poised. He'd have succeeded, too, if Tony hadn't known to look for that sort of thing. Body language speaks as loud as words, and all.</p>
<p>"Car crash," said Vernon, in a grunt that seemed to be the best he could muster.</p>
<p>"They did <em>not</em> die in a car crash," said Harry Potter, emphatic. "They were murdered by a terrorist. One of their best friends betrayed their whereabouts to him. My dad died shielding my mum, and she died protecting me. The cavalry arrived just barely too late."</p>
<p>"You're an awful, no-good liar, boy, who—"</p>
<p>"'No good'? Really? I must take offence to that. I'm the best liar in this whole town, thank you very much."</p>
<p>Stark snorted at the boy's deliberate misinterpretation of their words. He could like this kid, after all. They'd just gotten off on the wrong foot. Not everyone had as fine of a grasp or appreciation of sarcasm as he did. Harry caught his reaction, and gave a small smirk in response, and nodded, as if sharing a secret.</p>
<p>"Are you enjoying your stay, Mr. Stark? Seeing the sights? Have you been to London? Of course, I suppose it's more difficult for you…can't go anywhere without an armed escort, or being mobbed, right?"</p>
<p>He shook his head with excessive melodrama. "What's the world coming to? Well, don't be a stranger. Let me know if I can get you anything."</p>
<p>Perhaps it was recent comments, but Stark doubted the sincerity of Harry Potter's offer.</p><hr/>
<p>Harry generally pushed his luck as far as he could, knowing that the Dursleys wouldn't dare to do anything to him with Stark right there. He was a living shield, except for not bearing the brunt of their anger. He'd pay for it when the business associate left, but for now, he might as well have some fun. He found himself regretting even more that their first acquaintance had had to be one of enmity. Of course, it wasn't <em>now</em>, except for how it sort of would be….</p>
<p>Why did life have to be so confusing?</p>
<p>He and Stark traded barbs of varying subtlety throughout that entire meal. Most of the barbs were directed towards the Dursleys, who were trying, and failing, to maintain their dignity and respectability. He was sure that they'd told Stark the lie about him attending St. Brutus's—it was in the early suspicion and mistrust that Stark had displayed, but even a criminal could be a decent person, someone worth knowing, and perhaps Stark was even doubting the reality of his purported school by the end. Maybe he didn't need Ron or Sirius's help, after all. Who knew what Ron might have let slip? And Sirius was doing things for the Order.</p>
<p>Complaining about the Dursleys was good for relieving the built=up stress, too.</p>
<p>He didn't realise that they <em>were</em> building up any rapport until after the dinner had ended, and Stark, with a glance around the room to silence any objections in advance, asked if he could speak to Harry alone.</p>
<p>"Well, that was fun," Harry commented, once he'd subtly ensured that there could be no eavesdroppers. You could only spend so long wondering if there were any wizarding spells against eavesdropping before you created your own, he figured. This was much less flashy than wizarding magic, <em>and</em> he wouldn't get in trouble with the Ministry. Also, wizarding magic had the distressing tendency to cause electronics in particular to malfunction and die. He'd hate to be responsible for the murder of one of Stark's electronics. He was also genuinely in a better mood, after all of that. Nice, in a way, to be reminded that Riddle wasn't the greatest threat out there.</p>
<p>"You're an okay kid," Stark declared, as if he'd just decided it now. Harry looked down at his feet, again, suddenly self-conscious. <em>Stark</em> was one of the <em>Avengers</em>. He had no right to stand in any of their presence, after what he'd done.</p>
<p>Or was that <em>before</em> what he'd done? Or "before what he was going to do"? Gah. Why couldn't life be simple?</p>
<p>He affected not to be disturbed or distracted by these last trains of thought, but that still left him self-conscious and awkward. And guilt was not so easily assuaged.</p>
<p>"I'm really not," he said, quietly, glancing at the sofa upon which he'd once been forbidden to sit. Didn't want to get freakiness on it.</p>
<p>"Does social services need to get involved?" asked Stark, in a very serious voice, and Harry recoiled as if stricken, which thought threatened to lead his thoughts down other dangerous paths. "I'm willing to be a witness."</p>
<p>Harry looked up to meet his gaze. Stared. He waited for the smile to pull into a smirk, and realised, slowly, that he should probably say something.</p>
<p>"There's no need. I'm only here for two more years, anyway. Not even that."</p>
<p>Stark noted that he didn't say that there was nothing to call about.</p>
<p>"And then, what, you're emancipated?" he asked. He knew that he could use big words with this one. Harry just nodded.</p>
<p>"Two years to freedom," he said, with a hollow grin.</p>
<p>"You decided what you're going to do with your life? I can always use intelligent people who are willing to learn. And it's not every day I meet someone who appreciates sarcasm the way I do."</p>
<p>"I was thinking of joining the police," said Harry, with a shrug. He was thinking of becoming an auror, which was almost the same thing. In fact, he had his heart set on it. It was strange to admit it to anyone, however, especially someone who didn't know that he was himself part of the reason for Harry's choice of occupation.</p>
<p>"Ah. Do they take juvenile delinquents and convicted felons here in Britain?" asked Stark, with deliberate levity.</p>
<p>"Come now, Mr. Stark. We both know that that's a lie."</p>
<p>No comment. "Well, the offer stands. If you ever find yourself in The States—particularly wherever I happen to have my headquarters at the time, which'll probably be either L.A. or New York, feel free to drop on by. And, hmm. Alright. Let me ask your advice on something," he said.</p>
<p>Harry kept a respectful silence, and waited, head tilted to the side, hands in his pockets. It was a very Sirius pose.</p>
<p>"I'm asking your advice, here. Do you think that I should sign the deal with your uncle?"</p>
<p>He was leaning towards "no", already, but Harry knew this family better than he. Still, he felt that the Dursleys were more than a bit…shady.</p>
<p>Harry paused, leant back, thinking the matter over carefully, and….</p>
<p>"No," he said, with a shrug. "They're not desperately in need of funding, you know, and while they're on their best behaviour while you're here, they'll go back to their usual behaviour once you've gone. They don't need the extra money, but they'll use the prestige to get a leg up on the competition and cut them out. I wouldn't trust any contract written up by Vernon Dursley, anyway. One of these days his less than savoury behaviour will come to light. Don't let him take you for all you've got."</p>
<p>Stark digested this summary, and shrugged. "Well, I didn't like them much, anyway. Sort of a shame not to have the opportunity to get in a few more shots at your Uncle, though."</p>
<p>Harry paused, tilting his head the other way, and glanced up at Stark, as if thoroughly unimpressed by his childish behaviour. "Oh, don't worry. I promise: this is not the last you'll see of me."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Pottery Shards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry and Dudley are attacked by dementors.  You know, like in <i>Order of the Phoenix</i>?  That's basically it for this chapter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Right.  I suddenly remembered that I had to write a summary for this chapter.  Which, at least, took me less time to recall than that I was supposed to fix the number of chapters for this book.  There you go.<br/>...You know, I took the time to write out summaries for every chapter in this book on Scrivener to help with this...and I'm still making up the summaries on the fly, here, anyway.  I'm hopeless.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sirius was too busy to come himself, but he sent Harry a gift for his birthday, and a lovely greeting card in an envelope, which he'd licked shut with dog-slobber, and then had owl-delivered. Receiving gifts from his closest friends (family) made him think of Christmas. He should have confronted Ron last year. He'd known he should have, but with the egg, and the tournament, and Crouch sneaking into Hogwarts in the middle of the night…. He buried his face in his hands, thinking about it.</p><p>He never expected much from either day—his birthday, or Christmas. At least this year, he'd already received his dose of pretending he didn't exist and making no noise a few days ago. That was a start. It was, doubtless, something that most kids his age would not consider being grateful for, but he was trying to work on his gratitude. This year, his birthday was devoid of excitement. He could wish that Sirius and Ron could have been here all he wanted but that would change nothing.</p><p>The excitement this year came <em>after</em> his birthday. And of course, it involved his already fragile soul being torn to figurative ribbons. That was worth sending out a red ring, to his mind. Not that the Weasleys didn't already know.</p><p>Truth be told, that entire day had been difficult for him, what with Uncle Vernon (who thankfully hadn't heard back from "Mr. Stark" yet) wroth at Harry's audacity of daring to talk to their prospective associate—and to speak ungrateful things about them, no less. And what was he doing, hiding in the hydrangea bushes like some sort of freak? What normal boy paid any attention to the news? Blah, blah, blah, more or less usual fare for the Dursleys.</p><p>When the heat died down somewhat, he went to the old playground Dudley had visited once or twice when they were kids, before deciding that playing was too strenuous of exercise. It was one of the few places in Privet Drive that had any ambient magic to it, as he had noticed years ago, back before it had fallen into such disrepair. Much of that magic had remained behind, almost as if as a physical impression upon the land. The magic here was so pure that he didn't dare to touch it, lest he have some sort of corruptive effect. That didn't mean that he couldn't appreciate that it was <em>there</em>, be reassured by its proximity.</p><p>He sat on the swings, thinking hard about recent events, as a brisker breeze began to pick up. What was Riddle up to? Well, he was being very indirect, and keeping to himself. Perhaps stretching out tendrils, testing the waters.</p><p>What were the Order doing? They were doing nothing but guarding the prophecy Riddle wished to hear in its entirety. That and the occasional knocking on doors to try to talk sense into a people who were happier believing that Harry was making it all up.</p><p>On the one hand, their lack of proactivity was infuriating. He did not like the sense that the Order was just sitting back and letting Riddle do as he pleased. But, he recognised that, with the Ministry in denial, there wasn't much that they could do, without being hauled away for causing trouble and treason, or whatever charge they'd put to it. And, their inaction made it easier to bear not being a part of the Order. He was inextricably tied up in affairs, but if nothing was happening anyway…he wasn't doing any less than anyone else.</p><p>What would <em>he</em> do? First things first: why hadn't Riddle died for real, if he'd truly been hit by a rebounded Killing Curse? It was imperative that someone (probably Dumbledore) figure that out. He was willing to put his own research into the subject, too (and speaking of research, he had other pet projects he needed to think about, as well). At the same time, they needed to detain, or eliminate, as many Death Eaters as possible. Loki had given them any number of names, at the end of fourth year. Avery, Crabbe, Nott, Malfoy, Goyle, Macnair…. But Malfoy was doubtless running the Ministry via his wealth, and Macnair was still an executioner. All of the Death Eaters who hadn't been locked up or slain were still at large. And, he couldn't help recalling just how full the graveyard had seemed of them.</p><p>The graveyard. Sometimes, it reappeared in his nightmares. He hadn't had a good notion as to what to do; it had taken him too long to figure out how to get out of his bonds. Did that make it <em>his</em> fault that Riddle had been resurrected?</p><p>Remus Lupin had gathered "the old crowd"—those who remained of those who had fought in the Order in the last war. Many had fallen, but those who remained flocked again to the old standard. Some new faces had joined as well, including Tonks, possibly because she'd been asked by Remus.</p><p>But, mostly, the Order of the Phoenix gathered members, tried to warn the populace of the reality of the coming war, and worked to keep Riddle and his men out of the Hall of Prophecies, in the Department of Mysteries, under the Ministry of Magic. Dumbledore had said that only Harry and Riddle could touch the prophecy, and that Riddle would doubtless eventually figure this out, and would set a trap…the Order was buying time, delaying this confrontation as long as they could. Personally, Harry thought that he should go with them to the Hall of Prophecies, if he were even needed for it, and break the prophecy. But, he acknowledged that, as long as Riddle was focused on that, he was too distracted to try a takeover.</p><p>This appeared to be Dumbledore's strategy.</p><p>Ron was useless writing in code, so his letters were inevitably full of admonishments that Harry be careful, and platitudes that he and Hermione didn't know that much, either, but they couldn't write very much. Harry wondered how Dumbledore would react knowing just how much Harry Potter knew of proceedings. He'd have to thank Sirius and Remus.</p><p>And speaking of Sirius…with few options remaining, and little understanding of what prolonged exposure to dementors did <em>exactly</em>, deaging was seeming the only plausible option. If he could figure out how to do it. The key was finding some way to either bring the mind up to speed with the body—accelerated aging, which was highly implausible as an option—or to reverse the body's aging to match the mind. If you thought of those two as connected….</p><p>And, of course, his last thoughts before he left to try to get home "at a reasonable hour" (i.e.: before Dudley) had to be of dementors, and their lasting effects. Which was, in turn, almost <em>asking</em> for a dementor or two to appear.</p><p>He caught up to Dudley shortly before "Big D's" gang dispersed, each going his separate way homeward; in Dudley's case, going Harry's way. He eavesdropped on their conversation, and then doubled his usual stride until he caught up to Dudley.</p><p>"Hello, Big D. How's it going?" he asked. Dudley's jaw clenched. But, he gave little reaction besides. It took him a few moments to say,</p><p>"Don't call me that."</p><p>Harry waited for a moment to speak again.</p><p>"So, whom did you beat up tonight? I know you beat Mark Evans to a pulp a few nights ago."</p><p>"He was asking for it! He cheeked me!"</p><p>"And an insult is equivalent to blunt force, how?" asked Harry. "Not every situation is solved with violence, you know."</p><p>He seemed to need to have this conversation often, and with many different people.</p><p>"You weren't there, Potter. What do you know? Maybe if you weren't so weak, you'd know how to fight your own battles."</p><p>Harry bristled at this, but he took a deep breath, and let it pass.</p><p>"I am not weak, Dudley. Nor am I a coward." Huh. Apparently his voice went a bit deeper when he was angry, too, although he'd never manage to match Ron, whose voice tended to drop two octaves, anymore, when he was worked up about something. And, given that he tended to wear his heart on his sleeve….</p><p>"Yeah? You're not so brave at night, are you?"</p><p>Harry was genuinely puzzled by this.</p><p>"It <em>is</em> night, Dudley," he said, tilting his head back. But, the sky was full of stars, and he had to look away. "That's what it's called when the sun goes away and it gets all dark, see."</p><p>"I've heard you talking in your sleep. 'Don't kill Cedric '—who's Cedric, your boyfriend?"</p><p>"You and Malfoy should meet up, if only to exchange notes so that you don't use the same insults. For all that it is any of your business, Cedric was a fellow student, who was almost murdered a couple of months ago by the same man who murdered my parents. But, such talk doubtless bores you, as it does Malfoy."</p><p>"Who's Malfoy?" Dudley asked, sounding genuinely curious. No one else was around, and the alley was deserted; Harry checked. He shrugged, as if indifferent to Malfoy's existence.</p><p>"The son of one of the servants of the man who killed my parents. Rich, entitled, needs his goons to hold people's arms behind their back while he hits them. Sound familiar?"</p><p>Dudley was shaking all over. Perhaps, he was smarter than Harry'd given him credit for, for he seemed to take the hint. "I've changed, Potter. I took up boxing at Smeltings, got in shape. I'm a heavyweight champion. I can fight my own battles. I don't need anyone to help me."</p><p>Harry scrutinised him, up and down. Nothing he said rang false, and Dudley had never been a good liar. He gave another indifferent shrug. A seeker of redemption should not be stingy with offering forgiveness to others.</p><p>"Okay, I'll give you a shot," he said, glancing around the alley again. He caught a glimpse of Dudley's stupefaction as he looked around the alley again. He didn't know why he was suddenly so on edge. His sixth sense was trying to get his attention, but that didn't tell him much in and of itself.</p><p>A glance at the sky, for want of a better place to look, showed that the stars were beginning to go out, one by one. A sudden chill permeated the air. He was aware of it only as a contrast to the extreme summer heat of before.</p><p>"What—what are you doing?" Dudley demanded. He was shaking.</p><p>Harry drew the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, and held a finger to his lips. "Not now, Dudley. I'm not doing anything—yet. This is bad."</p><p>"What—what is—?"</p><p>"I know of only one thing that can seem to extinguish the stars," Harry said, gravely. "<em>Servo stellas</em>!"</p><p>Dementors. Two of them. Muggles couldn't see them, but they could feel the effects.</p><p>"Whatever you do, <em>keep your mouth shut</em>, Dudley. You can't see the monsters, but they're there. I'll let you know when the coast is clear. <em>Exspecto patronum</em>!"</p><p>Whenever possible, head the attack off before it could begin. Delay too long, and you gave them a way into your mind. He didn't even want to <em>think</em> about what effect they'd have there, now….</p><p>But, against <em>two</em>….</p><p>He'd practised, extensively, in third year, and his magical reserves were much deeper than they had been then, thanks to both Stephen and Thor. But, the more dementors there were, the harder it was to fight them off. There were only two of them, but it was twice hard—to keep his focus, to keep an eye on them, and all while protecting Dudley, who, for all his faults, hardly deserved an execution. Sirius himself had written that it was only a matter of time before the dementors abandoned their posts, joining back up with Riddle. The Ministry would make an alliance with those <em>monsters</em>, but not werewolves or giants, hmm?</p><p>The first of the dementors fled into the night, pursued by Harry's patronus, but the second one closed in, heading for Dudley. He redirected Prongs to face that threat, but suspected he wouldn't make it in time.</p><p>And, of course, the cold was setting in. Particularly with the retreat of the patronus before the dementor had been driven completely off, meaning that he was now dealing with two dementors again. It was the only sort of cold he had any real awareness of, making it easy to identify even without the knowledge that tonight was, in truth, a warm summer night.</p><p>Oh, and, of course, it was also pressing him down deep into himself, burying him in bad memories, sucking him down in the manner of quicksand, except that not struggling wouldn't do any good. Already, he could hear the screams beginning. He could recognise words.</p><p>
  <em>Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry.</em>
</p><p>He knew that scene. He shook himself. Only a few months ago, he'd dragged her into the physical world. He knew her protection clung to him, in the most flexible shield there was. It flowed in his blood. He'd spoken to her only a couple of nights ago. He knew that she would not want him to yield.</p><p>He straightened his back, rose to his knees. Managed, with great effort, to turn his gaze to Dudley, whom a dementor was lifting up with one hand even as it lowered its hood. He wished that he knew how to form those daggers of ice, or even what sort of barrier had kept him from recreating them, second year. Of course, he hadn't even tried, last year. Perhaps, the barrier had been born of his own denial.</p><p>His wand was charged with the Star Preserver Spell, and time seemed to have slowed down, the way it will in a moment of crisis, to give him time to think. Try to recreate a weapon, when he wasn't sure he could, and risk revealing the other magic to Dudley? What other choice was there? Hope that his patronus reached them in time?</p><p>There were other attacks, other ways of using the <em>other</em> magic, other unpractised spells that he knew that he could reach for, but, as he had noticed in the graveyard, he tended to reach for Wizarding Magic first, second, and third.</p><p>He sent a wave of ice out from around himself, as he had in…second year? It pierced through the hooded creature, the impact driving it backwards, forcing it to drop Dudley, who barely seemed to have any awareness at all of what was going on. The patronus arrived scant seconds later, standing protectively over his cousin. Harry swayed on his feet for half a second, and his patronus fizzled out—the <em>other</em> magic always took quite a bit more out of him, but he'd practised relentlessly last year, and his reserves were, by now, quite deep. He'd continued his practice even over the summer holidays, after all.</p><p>Rather than rushing to see that Dudley was alright, he kept his mind focused upon the battle at hand. If Dudley had lost his soul, there was nothing he could do; if he hadn't, it was his responsibility to ensure that that remain the case.</p><p>And, of course, it was growing hard to think again, now that the dementor had been robbed of its prey, and was focused upon him once more. The screams began again, dragging him into himself. But, he remembered the conclusion he'd come to in third year, that if the Patronus Charm used positive emotions, the only one that might work for him was <em>love</em>. The Sorting Hat, after all, had told him that love was his guiding force.</p><p>He thought of his mother, how warmly she greeted him whenever he visited her cottage in the woods, and, before that, the faint memory of her, always there, always a pillar of strength, the one person he'd once been absolutely certain loved <em>him</em>. And he thought of others, too. He remembered his dad, standing in the graveyard, choosing his son over his childhood friend. He thought of Sirius and Remus, waiting at Grimmauld Place, who defied orders to keep him in the know. He thought of Ginny, with her bright red hair. He thought of clever Hermione, and Ron, the best older brother anyone could ever hope for. He had to make it, long enough to come back to Grimmauld Place, long enough to see them again.</p><p>"<em>Exspecto Patronum</em>!" he cried, and a blinding, dazzling white light burst forth from the wand. Another patronus, brighter by far than the last, infused, he knew, with his mother's love. It was indestructible, indefatigable, the ultimate defence. The dementors seemed to notice its very arrival, and take heed, drawing away from Dudley. Harry sent Prongs over the stronger of the two dementors, the one with the more energy, the one that had tried to steal Dudley's soul. It fled, with an eerie shriek, and he watched it disappear into the distance. In that brief span of time, he was defenceless against the other dementor, but it hesitated to approach. Perhaps, something of Mother's energy lingered around him, shielded him even now. But somehow, he didn't think that was why it hesitated. Surely, in that case, it would simply have gone after Dudley?</p><p>The patronus-stag returned to Harry's side, blazing with the speed of a shooting star, and he sent it straightaway after the first dementor, the one that almost been driven off successfully, before. After a perfunctory scuffle in which it tried to bypass the patronus, this dementor, too, retreated. Curious.</p><p>Harry couldn't make heads or tails of it. He watched the skies for a few seconds, but the return of light and warmth to the world stood as evidence enough of the dementors' flight. Despite this fact, he waited still for a few moments before gradually relaxing, and turning to Dudley.</p><p>Dudley was breathing, but that signified nothing. He recalled all too well what Professor Lupin had said about the body outliving the soul, the original zombies. He was, mercifully, not far distant from Dudley, and in a single stride, he knelt down, studying Dudley, lying there, twitching.</p><p>"I think we'd best get you home to examine you better."</p><p>And then there came a shout. "Boy! You, boy! Yes, I'm talking to you! Wait up!"</p><p>He turned around, and stared. It was Mrs. Figg, the woman with far too many cats, in whose care he'd often been left by the Dursleys, when they wished to do something fun (which in turn required what passed for fast thinking on their part, to discover a way to leave him behind). He swiftly made to hide the highly conspicuous wand, ideally by shoving it away, as Dudley would else wonder where it had gone (assuming he'd retained his soul). But Mrs. Figg, to his greater shock, said,</p><p>"Don't put it away, you fool! What if there are more around? I'm going to kill that fool, Mundungus Fletcher."</p><p>He blinked rapidly at her, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. Who was "Mundungus Fletcher"? Mrs. Figg knew about magic? Since when? But there weren't any other dementors about…their presence was very obvious.</p><p>"Er…who?" he stammered, with none of his usual poise. His eyes were very wide.</p><p>"That thief, Mundungus Fletcher!" she cried again. "I told him not to go, but he had to go buy a batch of illegal cauldrons! And now see what's happened! Dementors! Good thing Mr. Tibbles was watching you."</p><p>He remembered the cat streaking out from under the car, seemingly at the sudden noise. Smart.</p><p>"Then…he was the one who disapparated from in front of the house!" He <em>knew</em> it hadn't been a backfiring engine!</p><p>Mrs. Figg was quite different from usual, and inclined to be rather short with him. "Of course he was following you! What, did you think Dumbledore would leave you alone after what happened last June? Good Lord, boy! They told me you were <em>smart</em>!"</p><p>He didn't know what part of her outburst he took the greatest offence to.</p><p>"You—you know Dumbledore?" he asked, in something of a daze. It was all too much, everything happened stacked on top of each other thus. She scoffed, and rolled her eyes.</p><p>"Of course I know Dumbledore!" she cried. "Everyone knows Dumbledore!"</p><p>He reached down, bracing himself to lift Dudley's girth. If this conveniently put his face in shadow so that she would have a harder time of reading his expression, so much the better.</p><p>"I had never heard of Dumbledore until my eleventh birthday. Hagrid was quite upset. But, you know the Dursleys. Do you see them telling me of <em>magic</em>?"</p><p>A slight, mocking hint to his tone. He glanced askance at her, and saw her gaze soften somewhat.</p><p>"Ah. Sorry about that. I would have loved to spoil you rotten, but if the Dursleys thought that you enjoyed yourself, they would never have brought you back."</p><p>This was incontrovertibly true. He said nothing, pulling Dudley to his feet, instead. Dudley, pale and shaking though he was, eyes wide and wild, nevertheless seemed…well, there was a sense, a suspicion, that his soul was still intact.</p><p>Or as intact as it could be after an encounter with dementors.</p><p><em>Crack</em>! A most untidy sort of individual appeared, unassuming-looking, with flabby folds of skin under his eyes, as if his face were trying to drip off his skull. He looked like a bad caricature of a chimney sweep, or some such, that he'd seen in a movie (he thought) once. All loose, baggy clothing, filthy as he was. A Cockney accent completed the stereotype.</p><p>He'd seen it somewhere. He knew he had.</p><p>Actually, Mundungus Fletcher seemed somewhat familiar even outside of caricature. As if he'd met him, somewhere, before. Even the name sounded familiar...</p><p>"Are you—?" he tried to ask, but the grown-ups were having a conversation, thank you.</p><p>"You miserable, sneaking thief! What did you think you were doing?" she asked, hitting him with a purse filled with cans of cat food. Harry took a step back at the sudden act of violence, staring at the activity askance.</p><p>"Ah, well, I had to, Figgy. Very good business opportunity, you see—"</p><p>"And what about your watch?" she shrieked. "Do you know what happened while you were gone?"</p><p>"Eh?" the black market dealer had time to ask.</p><p>"Dementors, you miserable lout! Dementors attacking the boy on your watch!"</p><p>"What—dementors? Here in Little Whinging?" he asked, which, to be fair, was a puzzle even to Harry.</p><p>"Someone—had—better—go—tell—Dumbledore!" cried Mrs. Figg, punctuating her point with violent swings of that bag. Harry looked away, and tried to pretend he were anywhere else.</p><p>Fletcher took the hint, disapparating straightaway, which was a shame. But, Harry'd been forced to break the International Statue of Secrecy. Maybe. He supposed it didn't count if he was acting to save his cousin's soul from dementors, his cousin, who knew of magic regardless. But, if he used any more magic, it <em>would</em> count. He couldn't carry Dudley and wield the wand at the same time. He put it back in his pocket, relying on the tension of his belt to keep it in place. He'd rather be wearing Hogwarts robes.</p><p>"What are you doing, boy?" Mrs. Figg demanded.</p><p>He glanced over at her, dismissive.</p><p>"I assume that you can't use magic," he said. "And you are, therefore, of little use as escort. Perhaps, you ought to have returned home to inform Dumbledore of goings-on, and left Fletcher as my guard. As it is, your presence makes no difference, and I can find my own way home."</p><p>His thoughts and emotions had suddenly whirred back to life. He didn't know what he thought or felt about recent events, not yet. He needed time to think and to process.</p><p>He set off for home, leaving a rather stunned Mrs. Figg behind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Return to Grimmauld Place</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Order of the Phoenix arrives to rescue Harry from the Dursleys, and Harry reunites with Sirius and Remus, and Ron and Hermione.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The confrontation with the Dursleys had been, to an extent, a familiar phenomenon, reminding him both of previous such encounters, as well as all of his failed attempts to justify his actions—to McGonagall, to Snape, to his father, to anyone who, whether with good cause or not, refused to believe his side of the story, and even if they did, gave him no quarter on its account. No lenity for extenuating circumstances!</p>
<p>That Dudley had pointed him out as the culprit—after all he'd done to save him—was galling but not unforeseeable. Sirius had taken the time to write him a brief note telling him to stay where he was. The Ministry of Magic had made matters worse, as only they could. The Dursleys had compounded his misery by taking the expulsion notice as proof of culpability.</p>
<p>Basically, everything ran as he should have expected. Being punished for saving his cousin's life pushed him over a certain boundary line. If he were to be expelled regardless of the fact that he had done no wrong, well, he would use no wizarding magic (his wand would prove that the only spell he'd cast had been the Patronus Charm, and he intended to keep it that way). But, he wouldn't hesitate to send Hedwig off with the red ring. Its time had come. This way, Ron would know. And since his brother was a force of nature in pretty much the most literal sense imaginable….</p>
<p>Harry allowed himself a small smile, even in the darkness of his room that he sensed was about to become his prison once more.</p>
<p>It was a bit amusing to know that the crazy cat lady with whom he'd spent so many unpleasant days was also a member of the Order. That didn't change the fact that she'd essentially thrown him under the metaphorical bus.</p>
<p>Dumbledore had ordered radio silence. Between these two facts, Harry's natural suspicion and mistrust were waxing. What were the old man's intentions? Even Sirius and Remus didn't know <em>that</em>. Was there a reason that, after the events of the Third Task, he was being kept isolated, removed from the Wizarding World? If Riddle had gained access to him even at Hogwarts, and if Mother's blood had been invoked in the ritual (albeit in a dormant state) didn't that suggest that he'd lost whatever protection was provided by his residence, here?</p>
<p>But, she <em>had</em> been there, the night of his birthday. Perhaps, he was being unjust (the Hat had never considered Hufflepuff a valid possibility, after all). Perhaps, there were something that Dumbledore knew, that he didn't. Why not share it, then, in the weeks before he was sentenced back to Number Four?</p>
<p>And, he <em>was</em> thinking of it as a sentence. Life at Number Four was essentially incarceration, as they seemed determined to treat him as a dangerous criminal mastermind, instead of a child. Despite not being in the know. It would horrify them if he accused them of being psychic, of knowing what would occur twenty years hence. As time wore on, this made the idea of voicing such an accusation ever more appealing. He must be a masochist. He knew how they'd punish him for such a suggestion.</p>
<p>Trapped in such an environment, even with his door unlocked (not that it mattered much, as he could always have picked the lock), it was difficult not to spend his free time in pacing. It mattered little to him that Dudley had made a full recovery, except that their need to dote upon their poor, long-suffering son ensured that all three Dursleys didn't bother him; they stayed as far away from him as they could, as if terrified that <em>he</em> might steal their souls if given the opportunity.</p>
<p>He managed to force himself to spend most of his time studying and planning in his room, except for when he left for unimportant things, like food. He wanted the house empty, and to himself, for no other reason than that it would feel less of a prison, that way. And, maybe, he could even practise some of the <em>other</em> magic—nothing <em>flashy</em>, per se, but….</p>
<p>He got his wish three days later, when Uncle Vernon interrupted his thoughts by throwing open the door to announce that the three of them (Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley) were going to attend the awards ceremony for a community upstanding citizens award show. Apparently, they'd won the "Best Kept Lawn" Award. This despite the drought, and despite the fact that Harry had spent most of his time indoors. Their garden paled in comparison to Mother's, and lacked any sort of spontaneity or creativity. Very artificial. However, they shut up and stopped whining about both dementors and Tony Stark, so he figured he'd just appreciate what he could get.</p>
<p>Although, he couldn't blame her for being ashamed and horrified to be reminded of Professor Snape, who, given the infrequency of Aunt Petunia's interactions with her sister after Lily left for Hogwarts, had to be "that awful boy" who had told Mum about Azkaban. He would else have assumed that it was his father, but he was fairly sure that Aunt Petunia'd never even gone to the wedding. Even if they'd met, she wouldn't have listened to him talk about magic—she'd have shrieked that it was unnatural and wrong and fled. But, despite figuring this out, he refused to commiserate with her about Snape.</p>
<p>It had taken him only a few minutes to realise that he'd never figure out who had sent "the last" letter to Aunt Petunia. Given how horrible that voice had sounded, though, and that it was a wizard, it had to be someone powerful enough to be genuinely terrifying, and know about Aunt Petunia. Those two criteria narrowed the individual's potential identity down sufficiently for him. Maybe he could have figured it out, maybe not. It didn't matter to him.</p>
<p>He had made his work visible again, and was indulging in some pensive quill-tapping, when a noise downstairs made him pause in his tracks, immediately setting the paper aside, drawing his wand and moving in complete silence to the open door, and then to the top of the stairs. The house was completely dark; the Dursleys would never trouble themselves to waste money on him, and he knew better than to fight it. Even though he hadn't lived there in over four years, they still hadn't troubled themselves to change the lightbulb in the cupboard under the stairs.</p>
<p>This universal darkness was both helpful and harmful in such a case as this one. His eyes needed no further opportunity to adjust, but the entirety of the downstairs was covered in a blanket of darkness. It took even him a bit of time to understand what he was seeing, and in the meantime, he pointed the wand down at a steep angle, waiting for any attack.</p>
<p>"Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourselves!"</p>
<p>"Good to see you have your wits about you, boy. Never know who or what you're dealing with. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" cried a voice that was more familiar than it should have been. It <em>sounded</em> that of Alastor Moody. But, given that he only recognised the voice because an <em>impostor</em> had used it all last year….</p>
<p>He hesitated. "Do you claim to be the real Professor Moody, then?" he asked, in a voice filled with a sort of bored curiosity.</p>
<p>"This is a rescue mission," said an equally bored voice, in a slow drawl. No curiosity, just a sort of deliberate apathy. Harry knew that voice too well not to recognise it. This was seeming realer by the minute.</p>
<p>"Sirius?" he whispered. His voice shook nevertheless. "Is—is that you?"</p>
<p>"We've come to take you away, Harry," said the hoarse, quiet voice of Remus Lupin.</p>
<p>"Why are we all standing around here in the dark?" demanded a woman's voice. One he also knew well. Tonks. "<em>Lumos</em>!"</p>
<p>He considered reminding her that the Dursleys' house had working electricity, and then dismissed it. The Dursleys would not be pleased if he welcomed these strange, wizarding freaks into their home. Which made it very tempting.</p>
<p>He recognised only those four: Professor Moody, Remus, Sirius, and Tonks. The rest were strangers to him, and they were quite a few.</p>
<p>"A surprising number of people volunteered to come on this mission," Remus said, with a smile that somewhat softened the premature age lines creasing his face. It was a kindly smile, but there was also a sort of secret understanding to the quirk of the lips. He and Sirius were the only ones who would have understood it among their group, which he couldn't help noticing didn't include Ron.</p>
<p>He descended the stairs, wand trained somewhere near the middle, where a single attack would do the most damage. He opened his sixth sense, eyes narrowed, as his gaze ranged the group. He had the <em>sense</em> that none of them were impostors, although <em>that</em> was hardly infallible.</p>
<p>"Where are you bringing me, then?" he asked, as he descended the stairs.</p>
<p>"Headquarters," Remus said, prompt as ever. He shot Harry a significant look. <em>Put two and two together</em>, it seemed to say. If they were genuine, then he was speaking of Grimmauld Place.</p>
<p>"Just a minute. We have to be sure he is who he says he is. You can't go talking about Headquarters to—"</p>
<p>"Harry, what form does your patronus take?" asked Remus. Harry paused.</p>
<p>"Plenty of people know that, surely," he said. "I did use it against Malfoy, that one time."</p>
<p>"That one was less than corporeal," Remus said. "Perhaps, because it didn't need to be any more than it was."</p>
<p>Harry gave them an unimpressed stare, still three steps from the bottom of the stairs, to give himself more room…and height. Being short made things rather difficult.</p>
<p>"A stag," he said, opening his seventh sense a crack, and glancing at Remus for signs of his own, personal magic, which would have lingered, if ever he'd bound them into a promise. He didn't want to waste any test questions.</p>
<p>He relaxed when he found it, before turning to Moody. "You're suspicious if anyone is. You asked me to prove my identity, and I did. Now, prove yours."</p>
<p>"Smart kid," agreed Moody, with a chuckle, that Harry didn't recall ever having heard before. "You considering becoming an auror, kid?"</p>
<p>Harry nodded. "My past four years at Hogwarts should more than qualify me for the job. Tonks, don't touch that, you'll knock it off," he said, without turning to face her. She scowled, and withdrew her hand from reaching to examine the tea kettle Aunt Petunia had left atop a doily on the stove.</p>
<p>"You'd make a good auror, from all I've heard," agreed Moody, and Harry's eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>"Flattery won't help you," he said. "I asked you for proof."</p>
<p>Sirius and Remus said nothing, even though they both knew that Harry already knew that they were the real Sirius and Remus (and could extrapolate from that that their fellows were also the real things).</p>
<p>"I have proven myself to Tonks," he said. "You don't know me well enough for a passphrase, boy."</p>
<p>Harry rounded on Tonks. "Are you willing to vouch for him, Tonks?" he asked.</p>
<p>She shoved her hands in her pockets, and gave a sheepish little nod. She didn't dare to touch anything whilst he was watching.</p>
<p>"Who gave me the idea for what might make a dementor less threatening, and what was that idea?"</p>
<p>Tonks grinned at the memory. "Death in a dress," she said, with a cheeky, cheerful wave that nearly knocked the teapot off again. He scowled at her. "And, it was…I dunno, one of your yearmates, you said. That black boy. Thomas?"</p>
<p>"Well enough," he said, descending the rest of the steps. "The rest of you had better not be fakes," he said, glaring around the room. "Rescue missions rarely require this many people. Keep that in mind, next time. The more of you unknowns there are, the easier it is to slip in an impostor."</p>
<p>"Good Lord, he's more paranoid than Moody," someone said, under their breath.</p>
<p>Moody glared around the unnamed crowed, but couldn't pinpoint the accuser. He gave Harry a nod of approval.</p>
<p>"Good thinking, boy, but these have all been vetted by Dumbledore. Hard to get anything past him."</p>
<p>Harry raised his eyebrows. He was less than inclined to be forgiving towards the headmaster who had left him in the dark all this summer. "…Except for Professors with You-Know-Who attached to the back of their head under the turban, a man impersonating <em>you</em>, one of his closest friends, a mythic beast, an unregistered animagus or four—"</p>
<p>"Dumbledore is only human. He makes mistakes, but if you're looking for a foolproof means of defence…well, let <em>me</em> know if you ever find it, boy. I've been looking all my life, and I haven't found a way of proving that everyone is who they say they are. Hundred percent certainty, and all that."</p>
<p>Harry scowled, but conceded the point.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was a much busier place than he'd ever seen it before—even when the inspectors had been making their rounds, hauling away vast quantities of contraband (he'd called in Mr. Weasley's subordinates for a raid, amongst others). He'd also never before had to learn the location before he could even <em>see</em> it, however. Apparently, this was the structure of the Fidelius Charm.</p>
<p>He knew that he would never remember all the people to whom he'd been introduced tonight. Not even whoever it was had compared him to his dad. (Did they look <em>that</em> similar? He'd been told that only Snape saw any resemblance.)</p>
<p>He shrugged, content to be able to retreat inside, and lower his guard a <em>bit</em>. The Dursleys were the sort of threat that he needed to always keep half an eye on. Hogwarts was his safe haven, or rather the Gryffindor Tower was. Nowhere where he might encounter Malfoy was quite safe. But, Hogwarts was his Palace-on-Earth. Even combat there was like fighting on your home turf. Grimmauld Place was somewhere between. He knew it, but knew neither he nor Sirius had any fondness for it. Still, out of all the places he'd been to in this life, this was the only place he knew he'd been to <em>before</em>. In his past life.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes before he entered, reopening his seventh sense to try to feel out his own magic, the magic that Sirius and Remus agreed he'd invested in this place. While he was sure that it would do its best to hide from anyone else, why should it hide from him?</p>
<p>He only gave it the analysis of a few seconds from without the house, lest he attract attention by his delay. Grimmauld Place was like a model of a house that had had variegated yarn wrapt into a ball all 'round it, smothering it. Hardly an inch of it could be seen under all those thick, ropey threads. But, there were thinner, wiry threads in there, as well.</p>
<p>He realised that he'd never separate them out in the few seconds he'd given himself for study, and entered the house, instead. He'd try again, from within the house, after everyone was asleep.</p>
<p>Mrs. Weasley greeted them all at the door, asking them about the trip. Was Tonks exaggerating when she said that Moody had tried to make them come by way of Greenland? He wasn't sure. It hadn't seemed that cold for him, but….</p>
<p>A moment of incaution on the part of Tonks awoke Mrs. Black, sleeping behind her curtains. Harry glanced at Sirius, who gave him a sheepish smile, and he and Remus rushed forwards to draw them shut across his mother's larger-than-life depiction, ignoring her even more amplified cries. Harry came over to stand by them for a moment, in the time it took for Mrs. Weasley to appear and haul him away to his guest quarters.</p>
<p>"Shall I see what I can do about removing this thing?" he asked of Sirius, who looked a bit flustered, and red with rage. He'd asked before, during holiday last year, but that was back when Sirius had thought he wouldn't have to endure this house often or long, let alone with guests…. He turned to Harry, then, who put on his best innocent expression, which didn't fool either of them. Sirius paused, glancing surreptitiously around the room.</p>
<p>"…Can I get back to you on that?" he asked, noticing Mrs. Weasley. Harry gave him a smile that held actual warmth, which was more than most people would ever receive from him.</p>
<p>"Of course, Sirius. Take your time," he said.</p>
<p>Sirius and Mrs. Weasley must have been at odds, because even though Sirius had already done the same thing before their departure for Grimmauld Place, he pulled Harry into a crushing hug (underscoring that he was the human equivalent of Ron), but then taking the opportunity to hiss back. "Yes, please. I'm at my wit's end. I don't think wizarding magic will work on it."</p>
<p>Mrs. Weasley tutted, arms akimbo as she stared both of them down, as if upset that Sirius should display any sort of care for Harry.</p>
<p>He was reconsidering liking her. Sirius was his friend first, and he was Harry's godfather. If any "adult" had "authority" over him, it was Sirius. Let her serve ten years in Azkaban for her fidelity, before she judged <em>him</em>.</p>
<p>He would, of course, be thinking this thrice as hard or more before the night was over. For now, he gave Sirius and Remus a sharp nod, and allowed himself to be led upstairs, a faint grin etched across his face, as he ignored the wall of elf heads.</p>
<p>Sirius insisted upon escorting them up the stairs, as if he didn't trust Mrs. Weasley alone with Harry. Something must have happened. Harry tried his very hardest not to roll his eyes. But, as Mrs. Weasley pushed open the door for Harry, who was still carrying his school trunk packed with all of his belongings of any consequence, Sirius took the opportunity afforded by her moment of distraction to lean in and whisper to Harry, "Watch out. The portrait in this bedroom reports to Dumbledore. One of my ancestors was a headmaster at Hogwarts."</p>
<p>Oh. He still had a guard, then. Of course. Let's treat him as if he were a criminal, shall we?</p>
<p>Sirius turned to head back down the stairs, standing aside for Mrs. Weasley to pass, before nodding, and giving Harry an encouraging smile.</p>
<p>Harry wondered which part of the house that Loki had found to hide in, and whether it were still possible to hide there.</p>
<p>He had scarce crossed the threshold when he dropped the heavy trunk onto his own foot as a direct result of the unexpected impact of something with impossibly tangled, curly brown hair, which was about all that he could see of her.</p>
<p>"Oh, Harry! You're alright! We were so worried…I mean, that dementor attack…but you're okay, the Ministry can't possibly expel you, I mean—"</p>
<p>Hermione was entering her mile-a-minute mode, and he knew that he had to head her off, and fast.</p>
<p>"Hermione, breathe," he managed to say. "Also, please let go. You do realise that <em>I</em> also need to breathe, don't you?"</p>
<p>He caught sight of Hermione's glare as she withdrew, taking a step back. He kicked the door closed behind him, and nudged the trunk aside with the same movement. He rolled his shoulders, as if that would redistribute the pain of impact. When Hermione hugged you, she tended to crush you. She spent all of her time lugging around heavy books, which made her far stronger than she had any right to be—at least, stronger than she should be <em>without being aware of her own strength</em>. She was like Thor, that way. And, speaking of—</p>
<p>With Hermione out of the way, it was Ron's turn to crush Harry in yet another fierce hug—Harry's third or fourth of the night. Ron, at least, understood how to hug people without compacting them like a clamp or a vise. Harry waited for a full fifteen seconds before realising that his participation was required, and giving Ron an awkward sort of half-hug back. Insufferable.</p>
<p>"It is good to see you again. I feared the worst when I heard of the dementors—I know how they affect you. Everyone was most distressed, little brother. I must apologise for not coming in person to assist in your rescue. I understand that there were a great number of volunteers, however…I assumed that you were safe,and had no way in which—"</p>
<p>He just <em>had</em> to remind Harry of the dementors, didn't he?</p>
<p>"It's fine, Ron," Harry said, with a sigh. "I think all of these hugs may have broken three of my ribs, however. What do you know of what is happening with the Order?"</p>
<p>"Almost nothing!" Hermione interjected before Ron could even open his mouth. She seemed to think that Harry needed placating. Perhaps, he did. But, he doubted that he was as ignorant as she believed him to be. Nevertheless, he leant back against the door behind him, and folded his arms. "We're underage—not told anything, you know, 'too young to join the Order'; Mrs. Weasley won't let Fred and George join even though they <em>are</em> of age, and—"</p>
<p>"Is there a particular reason that you refuse to speak of anything important?" Harry asked, keeping his voice very level and calm, which seemed to unnerve her rather.</p>
<p>She glanced over at a blank stretch of canvas on the wall, and Harry sighed, remembering what Sirius said.</p>
<p>"Well, at least you knew <em>something</em>!" he cried, throwing his hands in the air, voice now quite a bit louder, and carrying. "At least the two of you were together! Where was I? Stuck at Privet Drive. I was stuck on Privet Drive, trying to glean information of any worth from the Daily<em> Prophet</em>, although I realised soon enough that <em>that</em> was worthless, too. So what if you don't know precisely what the Order's up to? At least you've been here, and safe—I don't suppose either of <em>you</em> has been attacked by dementors at all this summer—"</p>
<p>He turned to glare at Ron for this, and Ron bowed his head, as if ashamed that he hadn't been there. Really, he couldn't save the world, and should stop acting as if everyone expected him to save the universe single-handed. "But, why should I be safe? Why should <em>I</em> know anything? I suppose I haven't done anything worth trusting, have I? I wasn't the one who got tied to a tombstone and nearly killed a couple of months ago—and I'm <em>sure</em> that experience had no adverse effects on my psyche. No, everyone is okay with casting me off to the Dursleys for the summer—I suppose they were hoping to be rid of me—"</p>
<p>"Oh, Harry, we wanted to tell you, but Dumbledore made us promise—" Hermione at last managed to interrupt. She was very wide-eyed, hunted rabbit. A twinge of conscience tried to develop. This was no time for that.</p>
<p>"Well, you can't have wanted to tell me that much, now could you? 'Dumbledore made you promise', hah!"</p>
<p>"Harry, you—you're absolutely right to be angry…I'd be furious if it were me, but I—"</p>
<p>"Enough!" Ron shouted, his voice so full of authority that Harry immediately straightened his back as if standing at attention, sparing only half a glance to the portrait on the walls. Hermione looked back and forth between them, clearly torn, and Ron come over to gently put an arm around her shoulder. "Harry, you understand full well that, no matter your deeds and feats, you are still considered underage. Dumbledore must have his reasons, but regardless, it is unfair to accuse Hermione and me of excluding you or withholding information from you when you yourself have kept some—"</p>
<p>"Well, this is all highly entertaining," Harry said, in a very level voice, his face blank. He hadn't been upset in the slightest until Ron had chastised him, with cause, for scaring Hermione. He forged on regardless. "But, I think we have more important matters to—"</p>
<p>"Harry! You've arrived!" cried a new arrival, permanently derailing the conversation.</p>
<p>"We thought we heard your dulcet tones!"</p>
<p>"You heard <em>Ron</em>, more like," Harry said, narrowing his eyes into a glare just for them. Fred-and-George. There went any chance of speaking with Ron and Hermione, which was probably a good thing. They'd <em>have</em> to wait to speak to him later, when they were alone. Perhaps, the library—</p>
<p>What, the Twins were still talking? Something about how he shouldn't repress his anger? Eh, what did <em>they</em> know?</p>
<p>"Well, Harry, just dropped in to say hello," they said, with a friendly wave. He glared in return. This had best not be revenge for shoving off his winnings onto them. <em>They</em> were the ones wanted to open a joke shop.</p>
<p>They apparated (for that must be what it had been) back whence they'd come (wherever that was), which couldn't have been far removed. The entire Weasley clan was staying here, after all. He was a bit surprised (and quietly disappointed) that Ginny hadn't come round yet. Then again, he could hardly blame her for avoiding a shouting match.</p>
<p>Mrs. Weasley came by a few moments later, showcasing why they'd been so eager to be away.</p>
<p>"Dinner, you lot," she said, looking around the room at the three of them in overt suspicion. Her gaze softened when it fell upon Harry. "Are you quite alright, Harry, dear?"</p>
<p>He blinked at the sudden change in her demeanour. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley."</p>
<p>Ron sighed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. ???</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry checks back in with Hermione now that she's had a chance to process.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I could never think of a chapter title for this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dinner with the Order was an interesting affair, full of noise and chaos exacerbated by Tonks's absurd degree of clumsiness, and Fred-and-George's need to use magic for absolutely <em>everything</em>. <em>He'd</em> never used magic for <em>everything</em>.</p>
<p>"Easy, now," he told them. "I'd rather not die before school starts, thank you."</p>
<p>"Harry," Ron said, voice pitched lower in warning. Harry just smiled, turning to face Ron and Hermione.</p>
<p>"Well, Hermione," he said, in an overly cheerful voice, to match his smile. "I've given you two months. Have you acclimated to the truth, yet, or not?"</p>
<p>Hermione blushed scarlet, and looked down at the tablecloth. Sirius glanced over in their direction, and Harry met his gaze with the sort of flat look that made most people back off. Sirius just nodded, and turned to engage Remus and Tonks in a rather loud conversation about werewolf rights.</p>
<p>"H-Harry!" she squeaked. "You can't bring things like that up <em>at dinner</em>!"</p>
<p>He shrugged. "Alright, we'll talk about it later, in the Black library, and be very awkward in the meantime. I suppose you and Ron, at least, worked through things. I wouldn't want you to be the next Jane Foster."</p>
<p>Hermione's eyes narrowed. "The next <em>who</em>?"</p>
<p>Harry turned to speak with the Twins about their finances, instead.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Since, for the moment, we are alone," Harry said, having practically dragged Hermione and Ron to the familiar confines of the library, "and as I don't know where I could have hidden so well last time—and it is much harder for three to hide than one—I think I shall make absolutely sure no one arrives to eavesdrop. Not that I don't trust Sirius to play watchdog, but extra precautions never hurt."</p>
<p>Hermione stared. "You really <em>are</em> as paranoid as Moody. I thought everyone was exaggerating. Well, at this point, you're sure to become the next Head Auror. Paranoia is in the job description."</p>
<p>He paused, considering. "It <em>is</em>?" he asked. He shook his head, coating his hand in magic as he did. But not Wizarding Magic, so he knew the Ministry would remain ignorant of its existence. He walked a circle around the perimeter, green brightness seeping from between the clenched fingers of his fist as he did. At last he came to a halt before them again. "For the moment, it is safe to speak of whatever we must, here."</p>
<p>"W—was that—?" Hermione asked. She seemed unable to finish that sentence. He waited for her. He could outwait most people. "…Was that <em>divine</em> magic, or whatever it's called?"</p>
<p>He just gave her a smile. "Well, I'm not about to use any <em>wizarding</em> magic when that's the reason they're trying to expel me."</p>
<p>"They're expelling you for using <em>magic</em>," Hermione corrected him. "I mean, they're not expelling you, they're putting you on trial."</p>
<p>"They have no authority in any magic other than their own," Harry said, with something of a smug smirk. "I refuse to answer to their authority when it concerns the magic of home. They should take care not to overstep their bounds, lest they find themselves attempting to placate forces beyond their comprehension."</p>
<p>"That sounds so incredibly arrogant, Harry," she said, sinking down into a chair, her head in her hands. Ron, of course, stood for a third guard in the doorway.</p>
<p>"Oh, no. There's worse than <em>I</em> out there. I suppose Stephen's been through here, instead of visiting me at Privet Drive. Didn't he ever tell you about Dormamu?"</p>
<p>"He visits every other week," Ron corrected. "He thought it more prudent not to visit your 'relatives', given their extreme aversion to magic."</p>
<p>Harry nodded his approval. "Smart. I can see why they say 'it's not brain surgery'. Well, did he mention Dormamu?"</p>
<p>Ron hesitated. Harry took his meaning, and rested his chin in his hand, supporting that arm with his other. It is always a very pensive look.</p>
<p>"Well, there are others I might speak of besides merely an extradimensional being from a place outside time," he said, his tone dismissive. "I spoke of it some when I gave you the bare facts."</p>
<p>Hermione sighed, and seemed to sink into herself.</p>
<p>"So, Hermione, have you accepted what we told you, before? I know there was too little time before we left school for you to—although I seem to recall you giving me the same amount of time to come to terms with it, myself. But, it's been two months."</p>
<p>"Of course you'd bring that back up," Hermione muttered, but he affected not to hear.</p>
<p>"And as you and Ron have been here at Grimmauld Place for—what, a month?—while I was stuck at <em>Privet Drive</em>, I'm sure you must have discussed it some, perhaps even with Stephen. When we left Hogwarts, you seemed to think that you needed some time alone to think about all of this. Well, you've had the time, now."</p>
<p>"I <em>did</em> do research," Hermione protested, but she sounded petulant even to herself. As if she were six years old. She silently noted the disgust with which he spat the name of the street on which he lived, with some alarm. There were hints, sometimes, that— "I have some questions for you, of course."</p>
<p>He nodded, as if this were the only answer he had expected, which was probably true, and she hated him for that. It was hard not to. It was also hard not to resent Ron for not stepping in. Ron, who was a <em>god</em>. Just what had she gotten herself into? They'd quite deliberately not discussed it much. Ron had respected her need to keep her thoughts to herself, but it was almost as if she'd tried to press "pause" on that part of her life—at least until Harry had to arrive and resurrect the conversation, first thing.</p>
<p>"You're…the reincarnation of a god everyone seems to see as falling somewhere in the range of dangerous-but-well-intentioned to outright malevolent, and Ron is…is…what is he, even?"</p>
<p>"Stephen used the term 'avatar'," Ron began. For some reason, this put Harry in mind of little square pixelated images on a computer.</p>
<p>"I think a better word would be 'theophany'. The appearance of a god amongst mortals," he said. "Aren't avatars just an aspect of a given deity? I'll admit I don't know much about Hindu gods, but—"</p>
<p>"Well," Ron said, sounding thoughtful. Which was disturbing enough without his words adding an extra layer of creepy. "I have had dreams in which I am…Thor, speaking to Ronald Weasley. It seems cause for concern. Perhaps, I have displaced the real Ronald Weasley, and—"</p>
<p>"Oh, no, Jung had a theory about this," Hermione said, glad to finally be back in her element. "You just externalised your old self as a separate identity because you feel a deep-seated conflict between your two identities. Judging by your discomfort…was he sort of…completely different from how you think of yourself? Jung claimed that a person's shadow self was composed of those aspects they rejected about themselves. In your case—"</p>
<p>"Perhaps. I am uncertain," Thor said, cutting through by accident, as only he could. Hermione huffed and crossed her arms, and looked back at Harry, as if she were trying to play them against one another. He sat down in a nice, plush armchair that he didn't <em>think</em> had leather upholstery, and just gave her a level look back.</p>
<p>"You seem to have acclimated fairly well. Perhaps, you only needed time. That is good, as I doubt that Ron told you much of the full story. But, it is also rare that we will be given the opportunity of speaking freely in this house—not with that portrait spying on us—"</p>
<p>Hermione's eyes widened so far it was impressive that they didn't fall out. "Wait, was that an <em>act</em>? You were just <em>pretending</em> to be angry with us for keeping you in the dark? But…that isn't really like you…." She trailed off, voice wavering at the end. He didn't know why she was so uncertain.</p>
<p>On the other hand, Ron shot him a sharp, reproachful look, as if this somehow made things even worse.</p>
<p>Harry shrugged. "Well, perhaps if I'd actually been in the dark, I would have resented you more for it. But then, I would have found a workaround. And, I suppose I might have been able to talk my overprotective older brother into telling me what he knew, which, to judge by what you said before, isn't much. I will tell <em>you</em> what I know, later. We need to work through this, first."</p>
<p>He paused. "Now, I sound like Mother. At least you've had two months' grace, Hermione."</p>
<p>"We don't even know <em>what</em> either of you two are. What am I even supposed to think about that? I mean, Ron's, like…I dunno, a thousand years older than me."</p>
<p>"Only physically, and that only in his own body. A decreased maturation rate puts him in the psychological state of a 'young adult', range seventeen to early twenties And he'll be there all your life, most likely. Even his power seems to have been reduced to half or a third of what it should be. I wouldn't be making a fuss about the age difference, if I were you, if you don't mind that he's technically a god, or a theophany. Or an <em>avatar</em>. And, I'm just a reincarnation, but my Mother's blood, or something, gives me access to inhuman abilities. I'm not inclined to analyse it, overmuch."</p>
<p>Hermione glared at him. "Of course, you aren't. It really wasn't fair that you could just up and reveal…all that, and then we parted ways, and I had to think of it all summer."</p>
<p>Harry gave her a look. "Hermione, do you think I <em>wanted</em> to head back to Privet Drive, especially after what happened in June? You were the one insisting that we tell you. Besides, I'm sure you had other thoughts on your mind other than just our story, at the beginning. Don't pretend I ruined your summer."</p>
<p>For some reason, Hermione went very red at his hint that she'd had other things to think of at the start of summer. What did she think he was talking about?</p>
<p>"Whatever became of Skeeter, anyway?" he mused, and Hermione's eyes widened in realisation.</p>
<p>"Oh—I thought—I thought you were talking about—er, never mind. Um, I, um, I let her go with an Unbreakable Vow, all sorts of conditions, and she owes me."</p>
<p>She sounded proud of herself, as well she might. Her moment of ultimate triumph, that.</p>
<p>Then, she seemed to deflate. "I—I did quite a bit of research over the first month, after I let Skeeter go. It…it doesn't make you sound very good, Harry. I think…I think I've come to terms with it, though. And even Ron. It's just…it all seems so incredible, so outside of everything I knew before…it was bad enough learning that magic was real…at least <em>that</em> explained some things."</p>
<p>Harry shrugged, relaxing somewhat in his chair.</p>
<p>"Perhaps, it would help if we gave you some details, now," he suggested, with a glance around the room. "I think we have time. Sirius and Remus know most of this, too, and Stephen."</p>
<p>"I'm the last one to know, then?" she asked, scowling.</p>
<p>"Welcome to <em>my</em> world," he muttered. "That seems to happen everywhere around me."</p>
<p>"Your reaction to the Imperius Curse—it's because of that Mind Stone thing?" she asked. She was not ordinarily the sort to add the word "thing" to her dialogue, but she seemed to feel a need to weaken the concept with excess words. He let her. He wished the added word were as much a cushion for him.</p>
<p>He bowed his head, and refused to meet her eyes. Ron appeared behind him to offer support, leaving his sentry post.</p>
<p>"Yeah," Harry said, voice hollow and a bit timid. He saw her brow furrow at his abrupt change in demeanour, but what did she understand?</p>
<p>Ron's hand landed on his shoulder. He didn't need to look to know that Ron was worrying about him, again. He shrugged the hand off, leaning forwards in Hermione's direction. He would always be Harry Potter. There was something reassuring about that fact, when he remembered fearing that that identity would be smothered under hundreds of years of memories, habits, personality, experience. Perhaps, it was because he'd fought so hard against his old name and identity.</p>
<p>"—and Ron said something about the Rules of Invocation," she finished. He frowned. He should have been paying attention, but he couldn't help being a bit distracted.</p>
<p>"I wouldn't worry about them," he said, with an attempt at a smile, which felt hollow and false even to him. "I seem to be born anew of my own ashes every year. You get to follow along on the adventures of a slightly different Harry Potter each year. But, I think I've lost so many pieces of my identity that <em>then</em> and <em>now</em> have made what passes for a coherent whole. I suppose my masks are just masks, now. How disappointing. But, there's still <em>one</em> separate. Mother helped me to seal away a corrupted corner of my mind."</p>
<p>"Yeah," Hermione said, sounding quite as subdued as Harry had, only a few minutes ago. "Ron told me more about that—about the Chitauri Invasion, and the Avengers, and that man, the one who—"</p>
<p>"Speaking of," Harry said, and Hermione seemed to understand his interruption. Her glance in his direction was full of warmth and regret instead of reproach. He could have had worse sisters-in-law, he decided.</p>
<p>He was not about to tell her this, however. He turned to Thor, instead, as if Hermione weren't there, unsure of how to react to her sympathy. How often had that emotion been directed towards him? Rarely, compared to most any other. He hadn't enough positive memories to act as fodder for his patronus, but even smaller things, micro-memories, you might say, seemed lacking. He didn't know how to react, and thus, he ignored her. "I met your best friend not a week past. I wasn't expecting to see him so early."</p>
<p>"His best friend?" asked Hermione, voice intense as it only got when she was pursuing a theory. Ron just gave a puzzled frown. "Which friend is this?"</p>
<p>She said the exact same words that Ron would have. They were spending way too much time together.</p>
<p>Harry rolled his eyes, and tried not to show that he was alarmed by the prospect of a hybrid Thor-Hermione. Could the universe survive the existence of such?</p>
<p>"The one famous enough to be known here in Britain, and rude enough to attempt to break into the Dursleys' house a day before his scheduled meeting. I may have found a backdoor into the Avengers. Fancy that."</p>
<p>Ron pouted behind him. "What of me?"</p>
<p>Harry rolled his shoulders, in case Ron decided to try to grab his shoulders and spin him around to face him. "Well, since you're not quite the same person as any of them, I don't think it counts. What could you do? Past versus future self, alternate timelines, and whatever else Stephen might be inclined to mention. I'll let <em>him</em> mention whatever he thinks is of consequence concerning time travel. He's our non-resident expert, after all.</p>
<p>"But, I think I might be able to sneak in the two of you, anyway. Although…I wonder if there are certain thresholds, or checkpoints, whatever you want to call them, boundary points that we should be wary of crossing. I mean, Hermione, you said in third year that time travel is forbidden because 'loads of wizards have ended up killing their past or future selves by mistake', resulting in the creation of only time turners, which cause events to remain consistent…. What do you suppose would happen if <em>Ron</em> and his past self were in the same general area?"</p>
<p>Hermione huffed. "He's a <em>god</em>. I think they're allowed to do that."</p>
<p>Harry considered. <em>Father</em> could probably get away with that, but then, most stories attributed to him an obscene amount of wisdom and knowledge. He shuddered to think what might happen if anyone with less experience and knowledge were given as free of rein.</p>
<p>Ron had started fidgeting, which was never a good sign.</p>
<p>"And, Ron, you aren't guarding the door anymore, so <em>sit down</em>," he snapped. He was never going to come to his point, at this rate.</p>
<p>"Why do you have to be so dismissive and <em>rude</em> to him all the time?" Hermione demanded, rounding on Harry. "Isn't Ron your <em>brother</em>?"</p>
<p>He stared at her, more than a bit alarmed. Hermione was more than a bit alarming.</p>
<p>He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. All I did was ask him to sit down, and—"</p>
<p>"You're always bossing him around!" she protested. She seemed on the verge of tears. "Ever since that day, back in third year, Ron seems to just do whatever you say—"</p>
<p>"Peace, Hermione," Ron said, wrapping an arm around her to pull her close. "Were there need, I would speak for myself. It is kind of you to be concerned on my behalf. That is most chivalrous of you."</p>
<p>Harry had the sense to keep his silence, and not to make even the most innocuous of comments. Hermione could be terrifying, when it came right down to it. Perhaps, this was her revenge for all the times he had made her freeze up, her hunted rabbit expression.</p>
<p>"Fine," she huffed, at last, shooting Harry a look that said that this was <em>not</em> over.</p>
<p>Thor sat down abruptly in another of the study's chairs, this one an armchair. Its superior width and majestic height put Harry in mind of a throne. Fitting. And, it figured that Ron didn't seem to notice.</p>
<p>"So, <em>who</em> is Ron's best friend?" she asked, seeming a bit miffed and petulant at the thought that it was not she.</p>
<p>"Did he even tell you the names of all of the Avengers? <em>I</em> don't know all of their names. There's…let's see, Natasha Romanoff, I think, and Tony Stark, and—"</p>
<p>"Wait!" she cried. "<em>Tony Stark</em>? As in, famed billionaire inventor with a worldwide weapons empire?"</p>
<p>"He got into clean energy later," Harry said, and then frowned when he realised that, most likely, she didn't know this phrase. "Clean" energy? What's that? Is there dirty energy? A bit too early for that, he supposed.</p>
<p>"Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Dr. Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, and Steve Rogers," Ron recited, not seeming to have to think about it for a second.</p>
<p>Harry frowned, trying to connect names to faces, while Hermione's eyes widened. "<em>Steve Rogers</em>? Like, <em>Captain America</em>?"</p>
<p>Ron blinked, as if he hadn't expected quite this reaction. To be fair, they'd mentioned him in the list last time, too, and Hermione had just been too overloaded to notice.</p>
<p>Harry remembered that Ron had said that Loki had brainwashed Barton. That must mean that Dr. Banner was The Hulk (he shuddered), and Natasha Romanoff, the only woman, was distinctive for that mere fact, without needing to consider her bright red hair. Steve Rogers and Tony Stark spoke for themselves.</p>
<p>"You have heard of him?" Thor asked, frowning, and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. Hermione was angry enough as it was.</p>
<p>"He <em>is</em> an internationally famous war hero with many commendations. They will have spoken of him in her history class," Harry said, with the sort of impatience that comes of having a conversation semi-permanently hijacked.</p>
<p>The fidgeting stopped momentarily. "Ah," Ron managed to say.</p>
<p>"What's he like?" asked Hermione, eyes alight with curiosity. "Our course didn't do him justice, it was all about his shows, and then how he'd led the—"</p>
<p>The whine of a dog permeated the air. It took a moment to understand. A first forewarning. How long had they been here? If they stayed too long, everyone would know where they were next time. Harry wished that the Map worked, showing where everyone was, and what they were doing, for this house. Although, since the Map didn't tell you what most people in the school were doing…. That function was connected to the school secrets, and might even be relegated to them.</p>
<p>"I believe that is our signal," he said. "It would appear that we still must discuss the past before planning for the future."</p>
<p>Hermione's glare suggested that she hadn't forgotten their earlier discussion, which didn't bode well for his future.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Harry Listens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry <i>did</i> promise that he'd listen if Ginny needed to talk about her first year.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He didn't meet Ginny until the next day. She seemed a bit paler than usual, and sometimes glanced around, as if expecting an attack. He resolved to stay close beside her, to confirm that she was alright. She barely seemed aware of him when first he entered the kitchen for breakfast that morning, and then her eyes widened.</p>
<p>"Harry?" she asked, as if she hadn't completely avoided him since his arrival the night before. She'd sat with Remus and Tonks, he'd noticed, which had been somewhat convenient for making plans and for talking about the Twins' progress on their illegal joke shop, but somewhat offputting, as well. But then, he hadn't sought her out, either. He wasn't sure how to react to her. Particularly not after what he'd been thinking in the Hospital Wing, after the graveyard. That he didn't love Luna, but—</p>
<p>"Hello, Ginny," he said, with his almost patented indifference. She nearly knocked the table over in her haste, a feat of clumsiness that Tonks could only envy.</p>
<p>"Harry, you're okay!" she said, throwing her arms around him in a crushing hug. By now, he was resigned. Ginny was definitely sort-of related to Ron. You had to wonder whether or not whatever process had been used to send him back in time had taken such factors as natural similarity of characteristic disposition into account. That would have to be a very complicated spell.</p>
<p>He glanced around, but aside from Sirius and Mrs. Weasley, whom he knew to be in the kitchen, and therefore safely out of sight, he knew that no one was around to see, and make snide comments.</p>
<p>"I'm glad to see you, too, Ginny," he admitted. "Or more than just the glimpse I got last night."</p>
<p>"Well, if Mum had let me stay for the discussion—"</p>
<p>Ginny withdrew, crossing her arms as if bracing herself for a fight. Perhaps, she was.</p>
<p>"You wouldn't have learnt anything," he said, dismissive, and more than a bit vexed with Ginny's mother for cutting Sirius off just when he was about to say something important. Of course, he technically already knew what that "something important" was, but that just made her intervention all the more needless and infuriating. "I don't think anyone took anything from it. It was all rather vague. Your mum ensured we didn't learn anything."</p>
<p>Ginny pouted, and he smiled at her. It was not a reassuring smile, but it was the best that he could do.</p>
<p>"Why was I driven off, then?" she demanded, as if he had all the answers. He looked around the table, before taking the same seat he'd had the night before. Ginny sat across from him, leaning forwards to show her interest in the question.</p>
<p>He shrugged. That didn't make sense to him, either. Ginny was less than a year his junior, but Mrs. Weasley hadn't wanted him or Ron to know, either. No one "underage", which he and Ron were, at least superficially.</p>
<p>But, neither of them had suggested telling Ginny, either. He rather suspected that trying to include her would have been a dealbreaker for Mrs. Weasley. She'd been stretched to the end of her tether, being forced to concede that Fred and George were legally adults, and then that Harry was directly involved at the war, and he couldn't be locked out completely (admirably quick thinking on Remus's part). Not that he was inclined to forgive her <em>anything</em> after what she'd said to Sirius. Sirius was the best godfather anyone could ever ask for, and no one would ever convince him otherwise.</p>
<p>
  <em>He's not your son!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He's as good as! Who else has he got?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He's got me!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That's very good and all, thing is, but you might have had a bit of trouble looking after him in Azkaban!</em>
</p>
<p>Reproach was one thing, but to bring up <em>Azkaban</em>, as if Sirius had gone off on holiday…well, at the very least, it reminded Harry that he needed to make his research into fixing the damage caused by dementors his priority. In reality, however, he was unsure that even he could manage to be civil to Mrs. Weasley, if she spoke to him this morning (and she would). At least Remus had vouched for Sirius; that was something. But, he could feel his blood boil, just remembering last night. She had no <em>idea</em> the intricate bonds connecting those sitting at that corner of the table to one another.</p>
<p>He shook his head, and returned his focus to the question at hand.</p>
<p>"Your mum is overprotective. And by now she must have realised that you are far too intelligent to be given even such slight knowledge." He smiled at her, across the table, and she frowned.</p>
<p>"You're being nice to me, again. Flattery won't get you anywhere," she said, with narrowed eyes. He gave her a sort of pained smile, as if he'd stepped on something small, and dull, but pointed.</p>
<p>"It's gotten me out of some hot spots in the past," he said, without bothering to try to remember such an instance. Who cared whether or not that statement were true or unsubstantiated?</p>
<p>"It won't work on me," she said, and he spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then rested his head on one hand. He didn't care if having an elbow on the table was considered rude, at the moment.</p>
<p>"Duly noted," he said, glancing around the dining area again. Still empty. He was almost suspicious. He knew that Ron was already awake, and Ron was big on meals. But, breakfast wasn't ready yet. Perhaps, he'd found something else to do…?</p>
<p>Harry was only down here, himself, to escape those dreams of confined, darkened hallways, twisting corridors, a doorway beyond which lay something he desperately desired, although the name of this <em>something</em> was unknown to him.</p>
<p>"Are you…alright…?" she asked, sounding hesitant, now. She reached out for him, across the table. "You seem…distracted…?"</p>
<p>Her voice wavered at the end. He noticed dark circles around her eyes, as if she'd had trouble sleeping. Not that it detracted from her beauty, or anything, but he knew that <em>looking</em> good and <em>feeling</em> well weren't the same thing.</p>
<p>"A dream," he said, lowering his hand and taking his elbow off the table, and straightening up, to show that he wasn't tired. Even though he was. "And, what of you, Ginny?"</p>
<p>"…'<em>Me</em>'?" she repeated, hesitant, as if this were an unfamiliar word. His eyes narrowed, as he examined her more closely. She seemed a bit…diminished, feebler than he was used to, but not <em>weak</em>. She was not as she had been in her first year (his second) but there was a certain shattered-glass fragility that he was all too familiar with, behind it.</p>
<p>"I did offer that if ever you needed to speak of what happened… <em>before</em>…that I would listen," he reminded her.</p>
<p>Ginny hesitated, glancing around the room. "I—I…" she faltered, and then banged her head against the table because she failed to put her arms as a cushion for it in time. "Ow," she said, as if this excused her from answering. She lifted her head only far enough to nestle it in her arms, hiding from his sight.</p>
<p>"Everything is different, now," he said, pensive, turning the idea over in his own mind. "Perhaps, you thought that you were well, until he returned, and then, you began to wonder—"</p>
<p>She raised her head to glare at him, but her eyes were now swollen and red. "Fine! Yes, it was easier when he was just some ghost off in Albania, and I knew that we'd never cross paths, or anything, ever. Now that he's… <em>back</em>, I don't know what to do. It's stupid to think that he'd recognise <em>me</em>, that he'd seek me out—what use am I to him, anyway? I'm just a stupid little girl."</p>
<p>Harry hoped that Riddle hadn't called Ginny that to her face. Or, well, whatever the equivalent would be.</p>
<p>"If he believes that, then that is <em>his</em> error. Everyone makes mistakes, and nothing now connects you to him. Nor was the diary connected to Ri—You=Know-Who." He sensed that calling him "Riddle" to Ginny would be a mistake.</p>
<p>She just stared at him. Uncertain what to do, he continued to explain. "That diary was separate from the consciousness of its originator. You were connected to that estranged consciousness, and not to You-Know-Who himself."</p>
<p>"I have no idea what that means," Ginny said, in her flattest voice.</p>
<p>He frowned, and took a moment to think, tracing some sort of design etched into the table as he did.</p>
<p>"It means…" he said, and then stopped. "If you are concerned that a lingering connection binds you, allow me to lay your fears to rest. You were always two steps removed from him at any given time, except…when…you were not <em>yourself</em>, shall we say. But, whatever magic he invested into his diary retained too limited of a connection to You-Know-Who for him to have any reason to recognise you. Indeed, but for the words of Lucius Malfoy, he would not know that the diary had been destroyed at all. He does not know any of your secrets. Perhaps, you know some of <em>his</em>."</p>
<p>He glared at the table as he spat Malfoy's name. That one had much still to answer for. Not least what he had caused to be done to Ginny. He might even be <em>more</em> to blame for her suffering than Riddle. But, Harry couldn't help the way his expression softened as he looked back to her.</p>
<p>"How do you <em>stand</em> it?" Ginny said, leaping to her feet without warning. He blinked at the abrupt shift, but thought he ought to have expected her unpredictability. Still, "expecting the unexpected" was impossible, no matter how often it was advised. There were just too many candidates and possibilities.</p>
<p>He cocked his head, with a bit of a frown, that he stifled. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, inviting her to continue in the politest way possible, but subtly weaving the closest he could come to the magic he'd used last night whilst still remaining inconspicuous. In such close quarters, it might be sufficient.</p>
<p>"I petrified Hermione, and Mrs. Norris, and Justin, and you almost <em>died</em>, because you had to rescue <em>me</em>, and—"</p>
<p>He should have learnt the spell for conjuring tissues. There had to be one. Wizards had the randomest spells.</p>
<p>"You mean, you gave me the chance to look the hero and redeem myself to Hogwarts at large?" he asked, with a smile. She blinked. "Hogwarts turns against me once a year, and remains that way until the end of the year. It started in <em>my</em> first year, before you ever walked the grounds. No permanent damage was done, because <em>you</em> had the strength of character to fight it off long enough to warn us. I admire the courage <em>that</em> takes."</p>
<p>She turned a rather uniform red at this, and ducked her head. If she started speaking, her speech would be full of stutters, so she kept quiet.</p>
<p>"I, on the other hand, tried to kill a doctor. Ron managed to stop me, but—" He spread his hands, and did not finish his sentence, allowing her to finish it as she felt best. "No petrifications, not even any murders, but two separate threats with the same end goal. Similar end goals."</p>
<p>Ginny stared down at him, and he fought the urge to rise.</p>
<p>
  <em>Vulnerable the man on his knee—</em>
</p>
<p>It wasn't the corrupted corner of his mind, but such thoughts weren't useful now, either. Sure, he had no vassals or bodyguards to defend him, but he'd rarely ever needed them. Warrior culture, and all. Besides, the thing he needed defending against was not a physical threat to be fended off. And, it wouldn't be right to keep her from asking the question at all.</p>
<p>It occurred to him, in a flash, that Ginny might have <em>arranged</em> not to be bothered, whilst she spoke with him. She was not stupid, and her mother doted on her. It wouldn't be hard for her to convince Mrs. Weasley to leave them be…and Ron and Hermione….</p>
<p>Oh, well played, Ginny. She was too unsurprised by her mother's continued absence for him to believe that she had nothing to do with it. Unless it was just that she was cooking, but Hermione and Ron should have arrived by now to save him—</p>
<p>"If it was…You-Know-Who, who controlled me, in first year, then…then <em>who</em>—?" she couldn't think of a tactful way to end that sentence, and thus cut it short.</p>
<p>"No one you would have heard of," he said. It occurred to him, then, that if he had relied upon Ron to decide when to tell Hermione the truth—even though Hermione was a mutual friend—it perhaps fell to <em>Harry</em> to decide when to tell Ginny. If, that is, she ever decided…if they ever had the chance to date. Which he shouldn't be thinking, should he? He was, technically speaking, dating Luna, Ginny's best friend. And, Luna was a very nice girl, and fun to be around, but…perhaps it wasn't fair to her…?</p>
<p>Ginny's perplexity deepened at this. Taken out of context, the statement made no sense; her confusion was justified.</p>
<p>"I will tell you later," he said. "It is a very long tale, indeed, and grows longer by the day, but it…relies on quite a bit of detailed backstory, you might say, and I don't know when Sirius or your mother might barge in on us. Or Ron and Hermione. Where <em>are</em> they?"</p>
<p>Ginny gave what was almost a smirk. "Oh, they're <em>busy</em>," she said, and his eyebrows rose, against his will. Did he even <em>want</em> to know? He shook his head. Mrs. Weasley was cooking breakfast, with Sirius being obsequious in his attempts to "help". He knew that much. But…Ron and Hermione. He sighed, and began to trace the design etched into the tablewood again. He wasn't even looking at it.</p>
<p>"In that case, was there anything else you needed to—"</p>
<p>"How do you stand it all, Harry?" she asked again. "I mean, the Wizarding World has kind of put the weight of the world onto your shoulders, and then on top of that, everyone ostracises you for over half the year. I saw it the last three years, at the least. You haven't even done anything wrong!"</p>
<p>He wished that she would sit down. Instead, he joined her in standing, figuring that this was a lost battle. This was the sort of occasion when pacing came in useful. Remus would have started five minutes ago.</p>
<p>"No one in the world is without their regrets. And, <em>I</em> have done things that I regret. Things for which I deserve punishment. But, that does not concern your case."</p>
<p>It occurred to him, belatedly, that that could be taken as a dismissal of her problems, and he shook his head, hastening to backtrack. His hair tried to get into his eyes, and he used that distraction as an excuse to gather his thoughts, and pull it back into a ponytail, or something. In this house, keeping your hair out of your way was just a good general rule to follow.</p>
<p>"I mean that it's part of what I was talking about before—"</p>
<p>"But, that means that you blame yourself for your actions, and then go about telling me that I'm not responsible for mine," she cut in, and his eyes widened. Was she… keeping up with what he was saying? Even <em>Hermione</em> didn't seem able to do that. He tried hard not to be in awe, and to hide the fact that he was secretly quite impressed. Just how many people could say that, anywhere in the universe?</p>
<p>He shuddered.</p>
<p>"I suppose it does," he said, voice soft with regret. If guilt were a melody, it would be full of quiet, low notes. Play it softly. He gave her a lopsided grin. "I think you understand that feeling. But, I fault myself for not appreciating the situation before everything went bad. I blame myself for not trying harder <em>before</em>. And, what reduced me to what I now am—I could have avoided it all, had I been less selfish and arrogant. So I work on those."</p>
<p>She gave a puzzled frown, doubtless trying to piece together the disconnected bits of information that he had given her. He hadn't even meant to give her that much.</p>
<p>"Harry," she said, her voice very soft, too, but her expression taut, drawn as if in pain. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"</p>
<p>"I offered," he said, leaning back with a hollow smile. "Perhaps, we will have more success in trying to forge a path together. I suppose I have the increased magical capacity to help protect you from physical threats, and you have the psychological strength to help me through…less <em>overtly</em> dangerous times, shall I say?"</p>
<p>Ginny scowled at him. "You have a girlfriend," she reminded him, and he blinked, quizzical, not understanding the relevance.</p>
<p>"And you have a boyfriend. What of it?"</p>
<p>He still hadn't figured out Neville's preoccupation with the Cruciatus Curse. But then, he was starting to realise, most of Neville's life was a mystery. As was that of Dean. And, even Seamus.</p>
<p>Ginny shifted, looking a bit uncomfortable for this turn in the conversation, despite being responsible for it. "Well, no, not anymore, but—"</p>
<p>"You broke it off with Neville?" he asked, incredulous. Ginny blushed, and stared down at the floor. Okay. Well, she was probably distressed over that, too. Not that Neville would be allowed into Order Headquarters anymore than Luna, but—</p>
<p>"I'm sorry to hear that," he lied, and Ginny shot him a withering glare, as if she saw right through him. That…was a bit disturbing, actually.</p>
<p>"You really don't get it," she said, with an almost fond smile, and a shake of her head. "Sometimes I forget—you're supposed to be one of the brightest students at Hogwarts, and—"</p>
<p>"Only in magic," he said. Few could match him on that front. But he, for various reasons, was not as well-educated on many other fronts. Hermione had an entire encyclopaedia in her head, if she lacked the experience and creativity to use it. And, Ron was flexible and a good tactician. Harry was just the one who strung ideas together into semi-coherent wholes, and filled in the gaps with guesswork and conditionals. It drove both Ron and Hermione mad.</p>
<p>"Don't interrupt me!" Ginny snapped.</p>
<p>Again, he spread his hands in surrender. "Sorry, Ginny," he said, with another lopsided smile.</p>
<p>"From what I've heard, you're really good at tricking people into doing things they don't want to—but you're not any good at making friends, or understanding the niceties of society. It's weird."</p>
<p>He stared at her across the table. Maybe that was what came of being associated with some concepts and not others—godhead, or even its remnants; perhaps it was his upbringing. Whatever the case, it was not something he was comfortable discussing with Ginny, who was not in the know about either subject…not really. She was doubtless smart enough to figure it out on her own, however. He'd have to watch what he said around her.</p>
<p>Just what he needed, <em>another</em> variable to keep track of. But…Ginny would one day know the truth. It was only right that it be revealed to her, especially as she was being drawn into the web of Harry's inner circle, such as it was. Would it be violating Ron's right to choose whom of his family knew the truth, if he merely left <em>hints</em>?</p>
<p>This could be more fun than he'd had in a long time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Underground</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry has his court hearing, and talks to Sirius about the Black Family Tapestry.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before Harry could confront Mrs. Black's painting, it was generally agreed, he'd have to get his hearing out of the way. As Hermione said, there were no grounds for his expulsion—no valid ones, at least. But, the Ministry was not even as big on logic as <em>he</em> was. Harry spent the week leading up to his hearing reviewing wizarding court procedure, and trying to figure out where the sabotage would lie. <em>He</em> knew he'd used magic for completely valid reasons, but that didn't mean that the <em>Ministry</em> knew. Then again, they hadn't announced the escape from Azkaban of a couple of rogue dementors. Even if he'd somehow managed to destroy them so absolutely that they were never seen again, surely someone kept a head count. He hoped.</p>
<p>Arthur took him to the muggle entrance to the Ministry via the Underground, making a spectacle of himself in the process, although not as much of one as Hagrid had. Still, muggle money was very straightforward, complete with numbers for the values writ right on the currency itself, the same which could not be said of wizarding currency. He must have noticed that last year (how long ago <em>that</em> seemed!) at the World Cup. But, he took the money from Mr. Weasley, sorting out the appropriate funds. If he'd had the opportunity—if he'd still had any muggle money with him—he would have seen whether or not he could get away with paying his own fare, lest he burden Mr. Weasley, who perhaps was being reimbursed by Dumbledore; who knew?</p>
<p>They made their way into the heart of London, and Harry paid very close attention to the toll booth (trying not to think of <em>popcultural</em> uses for tollbooths that he'd overheard Dudley speaking of), remembering the passcode for entry, and not so awestricken by the experience not to open his seventh sense to see what he could learn about the lift. But what he learnt was that, in fact, the tollbooth was a lift, and a surprisingly ordinary one at that.</p>
<p>They passed through the security checkpoint, and a wishing fountain, and then Mr. Weasley led Harry to his office, which was where he finally learnt the answer to the question of how the Ministry intended to sabotage him. One of them, at least.</p>
<p>"That's five minutes from now!" Arthur Weasley protested, shortly after sitting down. He startled his coworker by leaping to his feet, and dragging Harry back out the door, with a hasty goodbye, and then they were running to a much larger lift filled with people and animate paper airplanes. Thence to the courtroom where, apparently, they'd once tried the Death Eaters captured after Riddle's defeat. That spoke volumes, on its own. A show of power.</p>
<p>He did note, with some alarm, that there were chains upon the chair upon which they made him sit, and he couldn't help noticing, wary as he now was, that they were possessed of a sort of limited animation both similar to and different from that which most wizarding artefacts possessed. There was a spell upon it which almost put him in mind of legilimency, or, as his subconscious kept showing him for some reason, a set of scales.</p>
<p>Justice. Judgement. Equality (hah!), no judgement, a tool to read the innocence or guilt of him who sat upon this chair. They twitched and rattled imperceptibly, as if they intended to rattle at Minister Fudge, but whatever they were meant to do if he were judged <em>guilty</em>, they must not have done, for Fudge frowned. Harry smiled at his disappointment. How else could you respond?</p>
<p>Now, he understood fully the divide that had sprung up in his absence. Hermione had tried to tell him, Ron and Sirius had tried to warn him, Remus had used his best lectures, but there was no teacher like seeing a thing firsthand.</p>
<p>Percy had turned against him, had turned his back on his family. Harry knew that; he'd had to try to squirm out of expressing his opinions on the subject on the first day back, stricken again by the sense that life was laughing at him.</p>
<p>Another parallel? The prodigal son, turning his back on the family that loved him, the slytherin amongst the gryffindors, who turned his back on his family, as if they were holding him back. He'd seen Mrs. Weasley's tears, Mr. Weasley's shaking hands and cold refusal to speak of the matter, Fred and George's derision. Only Ron seemed to refrain from <em>hating</em> Percy, and that was to be expected.</p>
<p>But, Percy was not like Loki. He <em>had</em> done this of his own accord, and for no other reason than ambition. He'd turned his back on his family, one who loved him, with bitter words and accusations, that they were holding him back, that he was scorned by the Ministry, that no one took him seriously because of his father…typical teenage stuff, until you threw in his doubt over the entire affair, that he refused to believe Dumbledore, that he'd throw dirt into the collective faces of Britain, sacrifice the people to save his own reputation, and the Minister's. And, until you saw this.</p>
<p>Yes, Harry knew that he had no cause to expect Percy Weasley's respect and camaraderie. They had never seen eye to eye. He hadn't followed Percy's advice as much as perhaps he would have that of another, but—</p>
<p>He'd always been deferential, had never mocked him to his face. He'd recognised the difficulty in attaining the positions, the ranks, that Percy had. Prefect was not a trivial achievement. Head Boy was an honour. He'd respected that, respected Percy, and if he'd rarely spoken to him, nevertheless, he'd thought that, for the most part, his words had been civil and polite. When he'd visited The Burrow, they'd eaten at the same table, slept under the same roof. And, that didn't make them family. That didn't even make them friends.</p>
<p>But, perhaps, it made them not-strangers. He didn't know this Percy, and this Percy could not have made it clearer that he didn't know Harry. He'd turned his back upon everyone, because they'd chosen to believe Harry. Perhaps, to Percy's mind, Harry was the reason for Percy's estrangement. But, Harry hadn't made Percy walk out of that picture frame. No one in their right mind would blame Harry for the fragmentation of the Weasley family, for all that he was indirectly responsible.</p>
<p>This Percy, perhaps, was one who had never come to court before, never borne witness to the commission of a crime. How he could stand here, on the bench, having seen a guilty coward with his own eyes, and spoken against him with his own words, Harry couldn't understand.</p>
<p>There was a strangeness to the whole scene, a disconnect. There were other crimes of which Harry <em>was</em> guilty, but never tried. Yet here he stood, accused of doing something he hadn't—wilfully exposing the wizarding world to muggles. At least Dumbledore was here, even if he was, for whatever reason, refusing to acknowledge Harry. Distant. Cold. Impossible to please.</p>
<p>Past and future tried to merge. Harry grew restless, suspecting without cause that he'd be thrown into Azkaban if found guilty, instead of expelled. The congruence of experience tried to tear down all his carefully constructed masks, which were now little more than facepaint. He held up a rigid sense of control, but sometimes it slipped. That was inevitable.</p>
<p>Fudge wasn't letting him present his case. He was giving Harry no chance to elaborate, to justify his actions. Amelia Bones was supposed to be just, but she refused to intervene. Perhaps, she realised that, sooner or later, Harry would lose his cool, niceties be damned, and give himself an actual defence.</p>
<p>Did he use magic, knowing that his cousin was there?</p>
<p>"Only the Patronus Charm," he said, with an unyielding voice that Fudge somehow could not bring himself to interrupt. "Dudley was the only one around, and, as one of the only surviving members of my family, he already knew of magic. Not that I did it to show off."</p>
<p>He deliberately left his explanation short. If there were anything of justice to Amelia Bones, she'd ask for clarification of this point, and even Fudge would not be able to gainsay her.</p>
<p>"You produced a patronus?" she asked, and he, mindful of his manners, glanced down at his hands, as if unsure what he was seeing. Flesh and blood? A ghost? His own reanimated corpse?</p>
<p>"Yes, Ma'am," he said, with excessive deference that Snape would have recognised. She fixated on such a strange thing.</p>
<p>"A corporeal patronus?" she asked, brow raised in surprise. He blinked.</p>
<p>"I beg your pardon?" he asked, with an almost meek sort of deference. Dumbledore would likely have glanced his way if he weren't currently ignoring Harry as best he could whilst not neglecting his duty as advocate.</p>
<p>"A corporeal patronus," she repeated. "One with a coherent form, and not vapour or silver mist."</p>
<p>He blinked, trying to hide his frustration. Not even Dumbledore could have wished for the conversation to run…thusly, detouring senselessly off the beaten track.</p>
<p>"Yes, it's a stag. Everyone knows that." Then he remembered what Professor Lupin had said. "Or maybe not. But, I had to learn it in third year, see, to protect myself because the dementors were guards at the school, and I had a more severe reaction to them than most. I was laid out in the Hospital Wing for four days after they came to a quidditch match."</p>
<p>Her eyebrows rose again. "…I see. That is very impressive magic indeed, Mr. Potter."</p>
<p>A murmur of agreement, the fervour of public opinion something he could almost measure the heat of, know that here public opinion was cooler, and there warmer. His gaze alit upon the stolid nastiness of Senior Undersecretary Umbridge, with a little frown. He was instantly inclined towards a personal sort of hatred towards her. Judging by her lip straining not to curl upwards into a snarl, the feeling was mutual.</p>
<p>"It doesn't matter how impressive the magic was!" shouted Fudge, showcasing his jealousy and general ineptitude. "In fact, it makes it all the worse that he showed off such magic in front of a muggle."</p>
<p>"If you were listening, you would know that I was not showing off," said Harry, in his voice of deadly quiet that listeners automatically strained to hear. "Although there is no love lost between Dudley and me, that doesn't mean that I was indifferent to the possibility of him losing his <em>soul</em>. Is he a criminal? I suspect he is. Is he a murderer, or a felon, or even any manner of convicted criminal? No. He has his shortcomings, but I was not about to let them steal his soul, when it was in my power to prevent it."</p>
<p>If Madam Bones refused to prompt him for the right answers, he'd have to lead less subtly.</p>
<p>He was heartily tired of the Wizarding World's pathetic excuse for a justice system even before Dumbledore was obliged to call Mrs. Figg as a witness as to there being dementors in the street. She passed as a better muggle than squib.</p>
<p>But, in the end, he was cleared of all charges. No case could be made against him once it was confirmed, through records to which Dumbledore perhaps should not have had access, or perhaps <em>should</em> have, that Harry's cousin, Dudley, the sole muggle witness, already was aware of the existence of magic, and that, as Mrs. Figg had said, there were indeed dementors in that alley. Harry could not leave that chair swiftly enough. It brought to mind more dangerous times, times yet to come, a threat of which another present self was blissfully (or miserably) unaware.</p>
<p>Malfoy brought him back down to earth, with his supercilious, silky smooth barbs. But, the real poison was that Harry had just escaped a farce of a trial—no justice in the accusations, whereas Malfoy, the genuine criminal, had never even been tried, had never served time. The name of Malfoy and a bit of coin were all that he needed to escape justice—that and a dab of ruthless cunning. Unlike the spawn, Malfoy Senior was a genuine threat, and Harry was wary of him, accordingly.</p>
<p>They exchanged civil, veiled threats, and Mr. Weasley dragged Harry away, amidst exaggerated protests about just having a few words with a friend. He explained, when asked by a suddenly grim Harry if they weren't sure that Fudge weren't under the Imperius, that Dumbledore, the absolute arbiter of all things, believed that Fudge was still operating under his own volition. This was, as Mr. Weasley himself stated, hardly reassuring.</p>
<p>With the trial in the past, Harry thought that they owed him a few wanton uses of magic within the hidden secret confines of Grimmauld Place. Not that he would squander those, per se. He would need to fight Mrs. Black's portrait.</p>
<p>First, he needed to survive the celebration for his beating the system. Ron nearly broke his shoulder when he clapped a hand on it, and then, pulling him into a hug, quite possibly broke a few ribs. Hermione scowled at the both of them, even though Harry was doing nothing but suffering it. Ron had scarce let go when Ginny got involved. She was still working on making her hugs rib-bruising and innards-pulverising. He relaxed, just a bit, against this lesser threat. Her eyes narrowed at him. "I hope you thought things through," she huffed.</p>
<p>He just smiled at her, and she gave his arm a playful slap.</p>
<p>No, he didn't get it.</p>
<p>It was true that he'd gotten off scot-free, which was good, but he wasn't sure he understood the fuss everyone was making about it. Perhaps, they just needed something, anything, to celebrate, in these trying times.</p>
<p>"He got off; he got off; he got off!" The Twins sang.</p>
<p>"Oh, hello, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, conceding defeat in that particular theatre to check on him. "We're all so pleased at the excellent news. I do wish you'd let me cut your hair—"</p>
<p>"And as I said before: as long as my hair is shorter than Malfoy's, no one can judge me," he said, reminding her of that morning's confrontation, when she'd tried to do just that. But, back home, long hair was a mark of skill and class. It was an honour. That was why Ron was growing his hair out, too. A difference in cultures, a difference in worldviews. But, Mrs. Weasley seemed ever more distraught as the number of long-haired males in her patchwork family increased. Not just Bill anymore, now.</p>
<p>He wondered how Ron had convinced her to leave him be. It was not the sort of inane topic ever liable to come up in any of their conversations—there were far too many more important things to discuss—but he had to confess to some curiosity.</p>
<p>"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, for looking out for me," he said, in a voice that was perhaps slightly too stiff and level. He sought for Sirius and Remus through the crowd. He <em>really</em> wanted to know Loki's hiding place. And, perhaps, to disappear there until school started.</p>
<p>"Oh, it's no problem at all, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, in an airy voice.</p>
<p>Harry hastened away, deciding that he'd be safe enough around Ron and Hermione, if he couldn't find Sirius or Remus.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"This old thing?" asked Sirius, seeming unsure why Harry would even be interested at all. "It's a genealogy tapestry. Very popular amongst purebloods, you know. Hang on…haven't looked at it in ages."</p>
<p>"But—but that's <em>Draco Malfoy</em>," Harry protested. "You're related to <em>Malfoy</em>?"</p>
<p>Sirius didn't seem to attend, giving a sort of indifferent shrug. "Well, most all purebloods are related to one another, to some extent. Arthur is my distant cousins, you know, and your dad and I share a grandmother. It's what happens when you only allow your children to marry fellow purebloods, and all. There aren't that many of us."</p>
<p>Harry glanced around the tapestry, seeking for Sirius's name, but not finding it.</p>
<p>"Of course, anyone halfway decent on here has been blasted off. Great Uncle Alphard gave me some money to set off on my own—see, here—and cousin Andromeda married a muggleborn, you know. Couldn't have that. I was there to see her blast the name off the tapestry. Mother was always so vindictive—"</p>
<p>"Who's Bellatrix Lestrange?" he asked, frowning. Bellatrix Lestrange was connected to Rodolphus Lestrange, but there weren't any children, unlike her two sisters. Was she indifferent, like Andromeda, or a muggleborn hater, like the Malfoys? Raised in the House of Black, she'd probably tend towards the latter, and if her name were still on the tapestry…still, why hadn't he heard of her before?</p>
<p>Sirius paused in what he was saying. "Hmm? Do you mean to say that no one's mentioned Bellatrix Lestrange to you, before? Voldemort's second-in-command, the only female Death Eater, tough as nails, and mad as a hatter <em>before</em> she was locked up in Azkaban. Heard she went declaring her eternal devotion to the cause, saying that <em>when</em> he returned, she and her fellows would be rewarded beyond all others for refusing to forsake the cause…. Rumour holds that she was <em>in love with</em> Voldemort, if you can believe that—"</p>
<p>"Hmm. That sounds a bit familiar," he said. He thought he'd heard Sirius mention that before. He'd probably been distracted, thinking of other things. Still, that was quite the piece of information to forget, especially after Skeeter's early summer exposé.</p>
<p>"And here <em>I</em> should be. I doubt my dead old <em>Mum</em> wasted any time blasting me off the tapestry when I ran away."</p>
<p>Harry followed Sirius's pointing finger to a burnt hole in the tapestry. He glanced to the right and saw a name that he didn't <em>think</em> was familiar, although he was now less than sure about such things generally. "Regulus Black" the letters read, but the date of death said that he'd died only slightly before Harry had been born.</p>
<p>"Tell me about Regulus," he said, interrupting whatever Sirius had been saying. Sirius blinked, shook his head, and, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder, bent down to squint at the name, as if disbelieving that it could be there.</p>
<p>"I told you about him, the night we met. Stupid idiot joined the Death Eaters, you know. Then he got too far in, tried to wiggle out, and—"</p>
<p>"Riddle killed him?" Harry finished. Sirius twisted to face him, bent over though he remained.</p>
<p>"No, I doubt he was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort, himself—"</p>
<p>"You sound as if you lack all of the details. Are you sure that that was what happened?" he demanded. Younger brother, assumed evil, but dead, so we can no longer ask questions. Yes, he was taking this too personally. No, he was not about to make apologies for doing that.</p>
<p>Sirius blinked, as if this argument had come out of nowhere and hit him in the jaw. He rubbed at said jaw, underscoring the analogy. "Well…" he began, looking rather sheepish. "It's what I heard in Azkaban."</p>
<p>"Do they do autopsies in the Wizarding World? That might help to determine how he died—"</p>
<p>"No, they don't, but…well, we never found his body—"</p>
<p>"Then, he might still be alive!" Harry cried, and Sirius sent him a Look.</p>
<p>"He isn't. The tapestry knows…every birth, and every death. It's a bit like Molly's clock, that way. That he died is certain. But, you're right that the hows and whys remain a mystery. I blamed myself for not staying; perhaps, I thought, I could have talked him out of joining the Death Eaters. Or, I could have brought him with me, away from this toxic environment. Then, he wouldn't have died. I failed to protect him. It's my fault he died."</p>
<p>A fine shiver stole up Harry's spine. The resemblance between the tales was now too uncanny. "This had best not involve time travel," he said, but he was vaguely aware that he was shaking. His knees tried to give out from under him, which was unacceptable. He locked his legs, and stood up straight. More than mere coincidence, in the way that life went out of its way to throw this sort of thing at him.</p>
<p>"Why are you taking it so personally?" asked Sirius, with a puzzled frown. "What-oh, come on, it isn't the same thing <em>at all</em>."</p>
<p>"You don't know that! You don't even know how he <em>died</em>!" Harry cried, brushing Sirius's hand from his shoulder to glare at the man, who nearly fell over at the sudden shift. But, Sirius just straightened up, and gave him his best neutral bored expression. Very flat. It made Harry feel as if he were behaving like a child. But, he was raising a very important, and reasonable, point.</p>
<p>"Without a body and knowledge of how he died, you can't know at all how similar our tales may be. Did he seem to you to be the sort of person who would take the Mark, and then back out?"</p>
<p>Sirius took a step back, away from the tapestry, looking slightly harassed. "I—I don't know. I know I should have paid more attention to him…let him know I was there for him—"</p>
<p>Too similar, indeed.</p>
<p>"Perhaps, then, you should refrain from speaking your hypotheses as if they were facts, when you lack the details. Perhaps, you are very wrong about your brother."</p>
<p>Sirius wanted to say that that was <em>not bloody likely</em>, but he was no fool. He knew what this conversation was really about.</p>
<p>"Yeah," he said, glancing back at the tapestry, unnerved himself by how familiar this conversation was. "Perhaps."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Harry Versus the House of Black</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry has a good time, sort of, trying to remove Mrs. Black's portrait.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are things that it is possible to do on the sly, and then there are things that it is very difficult to do without calling the attention of everyone around you. Not only was Mrs. Black's portrait in the front hall, a main connecting point of the house, but, when the curtains were opened (and you could only do anything about the portrait with it thus exposed), Mrs. Black would inevitably start screaming at the top of her lungs. She might have placed a permanent <em>sonorus</em> on herself, as well. Or maybe she'd been that loud in life. Even Sirius didn't seem quite sure.</p>
<p>This might work to his advantage, though, Harry thought as he considered the matter. If people accustomed themselves to a silent Mrs. Black, they'd not pay as much attention to her portrait at all. Perhaps, not even noticing when it disappeared.</p>
<p>"<em>Servo stellas</em>!" he cried, taking the most obvious route first. He turned back to face Sirius, who was standing aside, watching. That was Ron's job.</p>
<p>"I might need your assistance," he commented, which was such a blatant lie that Sirius rolled his eyes. Oh, well. It had never exactly been intended to be plausible. However, it also didn't serve as a prompt for why he was standing near the stairs, well away from the portrait, but not far enough away to escape his mother's screeching. That <em>had</em> been its intended purpose. He sighed.</p>
<p>"What are you doing over against the stairs?" he asked. "I know what <em>Ron</em> is doing: he's keeping watch; he seems to have decided that he is my sole sentinel."</p>
<p>"I'm watching you," Sirius said, which also told him nothing. Harry turned back to the portrait again, and drew back the curtains slowly, and with his hand.</p>
<p>"That won't work," Sirius had to comment. "Why do you think the curtains fly open whenever someone wakes her up; why do you think she falls silent the moment they're drawn? She's awake if the curtains are open, and the curtains are open if she's awake."</p>
<p>The curtains were tied into her intricate network of spells? That did it. He opened his seventh sense as far as it could go, casting a sharp glance in Sirius's direction. Sirius gave a helpless little shrug, which was probably to be expected. If you were haunted by the ghost of one you feared when they lived, it probably mattered little that they were dead, and "couldn't hurt anyone anymore". Sirius retained too close of a connection to his childhood; his decade in Azkaban had essentially excised a decade from his life, the before and after folded together like a piece of paper. The memories preserved, kept fresher than they should have been, as everything bad will be.</p>
<p>But, Harry knew that he had to set aside thoughts of Sirius's treatment, for the moment. He'd count this as <em>part of</em> Sirius's treatment, even. He turned his thoughts to analysing the spells integrated with the portrait.</p>
<p>There was one that set anchors into the portrait, little hooks, a thousand or more, digging into the wall. If you could judge a thing's substance by looks alone (and with magic, Harry thought by now he probably could), the painting was made of the same mortar of the wall behind it. The hooks bored through the wall, in a thousand tiny holes, making the portrait and the wall into a single substance. That must be the stuff the Permanent Sticking Charm was made of.</p>
<p>He glanced at the curtains, put in mind of an old puppet show (and he didn't appreciate his thoughts wandering anywhere <em>near</em> that quarter). Thick cords attached the curtain to the portrait along the runner, in a manner reminiscent of a doorjamb, connecting either side with the portrait itself. That was the spell that drew the curtains open. It was a very strong spell, and Sirius was in the habit of <em>physically overpowering</em> it, just to shut the portrait up? That was impressive all on its own. He should have volunteered Ron, if raw brute force could overwhelm the spell.</p>
<p>He glanced at it for another minute, and then cut through the one on his left with his hand. He expected for it to have little give, to be thick and taut as rope, but not <em>this</em> sturdy, as if made of steel sinew, instead. But he was able to cut through it with only his hand. He had the Sword of Gryffindor, but this was not a use that either Dumbledore or the Sorting Hat would have put it to. It seemed unworthy of such a fabled blade. Also, he still had limited understanding of its abilities, and he didn't want to destroy the entire wall on accident, and with how tangled this network of spells was…that seemed a viable outcome if he tried.</p>
<p>The cord on the left snapped, and he set to work on the one on the right, interrupted halfway through by Sirius's demand to know what he was doing. He refused to dignify this with a response.</p>
<p>As he worked, he continued to study the complicated mess the portrait had made of that entire section of wall. Could the portrait be removed without destroying the entire wall? It would be like trying to scrape mould off jelly.</p>
<p>He scowled at the drawn curtains, and then, when he felt the final cord <em>snap</em>, he turned to face Sirius with a grin. This project would doubtless take several sessions to complete, but that mattered little, when no one listened to a word Mrs. Black said, anyway.</p>
<p>Sirius just looked nonplussed, which made Harry's grin widen, which made Ron, visible out of the corner of his eyes from his vantage point near the stairs, shudder.</p>
<p>"Say, Sirius," he said. "Your family was Christian, right?"</p>
<p>Sirius blinked, as if he had no idea what that had to do with anything.</p>
<p>"Harry, don't—" Ron began, but he was overruled. At least a month in this house had taught him how to speak slightly less loudly. Not that it mattered, now.</p>
<p>Harry clapped his hands, which rang loudly throughout the room. In the ordinary way of things, the portrait would have awoken and started screeching. But nothing happened. Sirius looked back and forth between Harry and the portrait, wide-eyed, looking almost disappointed.</p>
<p>"That's it? You deactivated my mother's portrait?" he demanded, coming over to stand by Harry. Harry put out a hand to stop him.</p>
<p>"Easy, now. All I did was break the spell that opened the curtains. If we open them manually, you can still talk to your Mum whenever you wish."</p>
<p>"So, never? That's what I'd prefer," Sirius grumbled, swiftly regaining his footing.</p>
<p>"You can't have everything. I'm not done here, yet. I need to see whether I can at least reduce her volume to that of a human being. I know of only one loud enough to drown out her voice. That seems…unnatural," he said.</p>
<p>Sirius followed his gaze to Thor, and took the meaning immediately. "A permanent <em>Sonorus</em>, do you suppose?" he suggested, a spark of life kindling in his eyes at the promise of a problem that would at last put his brain to some use. He'd missed planning and scheming, inventing and improvising. He'd needed the inclusion.</p>
<p>"That's what I assumed, yes," Harry said, as if he noticed none of this. "Help me open the curtains, if you would."</p>
<p>Sirius had never thought he'd pull those curtains open willingly, but here he was, doing just that.</p>
<p>"Fret not," Harry said, with a kinder smile reserved for the people he actually cared about. "The spell that will return her to her rest remains."</p>
<p>Sirius might have answered, had the curtains not snapped aside wide enough for his mother's eyes to snap open, immediately settling into a fierce scowl as she laid eyes upon him.</p>
<p>"YOU! MISERABLE TRAITOR, SHAME OF MY—"</p>
<p>"<em>Quietus</em>," said Harry, thinking as he did how ridiculous spells sounded. And how inflexible they were. Use the masculine form of the adjective no matter what, eh? Even for a woman? But spells were usually too inflexible to account of differences of sex; he assumed that this one was not one of the rare exceptions.</p>
<p>Mrs. Black's baleful gaze fixed upon him, and he smiled at her. Most of his adversaries hated when he did that, but she barely reacted, perhaps because she was used to that tactic from Sirius.</p>
<p>"You. Who are <em>you</em>, boy?" she said, in a much quieter, raspy voice. Her lips curled into a sneer.</p>
<p>As he'd rather suspected, the portrait, and the spells behind it, looked very different when the portrait was active. That complicated things rather a lot.</p>
<p>"Have you no manners?" Harry asked, drawing himself to his full height…which wasn't very much. He was still shorter than anyone else in his year, and far less intimidating at this height. But he didn't spare a thought as to whether or not Mrs. Black would believe him; it would be just as well if she didn't, but a sharp poke in the metaphorical ribs regardless. Of course, he knew Ron would not approve. But no one listened to Mrs. Black's portrait, and no one who heard her would make much of the ramblings of a delusional, bitter old woman. "Have you no idea who I am?"</p>
<p>"Brother," Thor said, somewhere in the background. Well, he was never expected to approve.</p>
<p>Mrs. Black's eyes narrowed at his "impertinence".</p>
<p>As she opened her mouth to speak, he continued, with his most imperious voice, "I am Loki Odinsson, Prince of Asgard, and God of Mischief and Lies. I understand that you have no patience with mischief, which I find personally offensive."</p>
<p>Thor seemed to have been somewhat appeased by the manner in which Harry introduced himself. Also, this was too interesting (and, if he would admit it, <em>entertaining</em>), to worry about the possible repercussions. He was naturally too vivacious and fun-loving to let most anything that was not a direct threat (and many things that were) trouble him. While still always on guard and looking out for Harry, he'd remembered to live over the past year, bouncing back into what was,his usual, rather ironically called "<em>sunshiny</em>", behaviour.</p>
<p>Rather than scold Harry for the risk (which would be highly hypocritical of him), he came around to more readily observe what was going on.</p>
<p>"Thor, I thought you were watching to ensure no one interfered," Harry said, with some exasperation. Ron pouted.</p>
<p>"This seemed a singular occasion, and I thought that you might require assistance."</p>
<p>"Assistance? Do you mean like watching to make sure that no one is coming?" Harry demanded in return.</p>
<p>"I could watch instead, milord," Sirius said, in an unnaturally cheerful voice, words carefully chosen to show that he knew <em>exactly</em> what Harry was playing at, here.</p>
<p>And sure enough, Mrs. Black was <em>incensed</em> at the idea that her son, who refused to fight and die for Riddle, would willingly give deference to someone who claimed to be, of all things, a pagan <em>deity</em>.</p>
<p>"Begone, demon! Back to the depths of Hell, whence you came! You will not besmirch these hallowed halls with—"</p>
<p>Harry recalled that the Christian term for their negative underworld, "Hell" came of the name of the Norse Goddess of the Otherworld, the very Hel or Hela mentioned in so many of his books. Since her father wasn't Loki… that suggested that (as the one book that had held that Frigga, wife of Odin, had three children, suggested) she was a secret, eldest child of Odin and Frigga, perhaps the family's best-kept secret. Not even a ghost of her existence, not even a rumour, had reached even Ron's ears, until Stephen had spoken of it. Harry had encountered it in his research.</p>
<p>The name drained away any pleasure he might have had in his success, a cold, <em>stark</em> reminder of things he'd rather forget, the risks, limitations, his own ignorance.</p>
<p>Sirius rested a hand on his shoulder. His first thought was to brush it off, <em>show no weakness</em>. But he was just a child, and he knew that Sirius was only trying to help.</p>
<p>"You…you look like that no-good Potter boy. You must be his son. What a nasty little liar you are."</p>
<p>"It's in the job description," he said, lightly, glaring back around at Sirius. But Ron had joined them again, too, unnerved, perhaps, by Mrs. Black's choice of words, or knowing what effect they might have. Harry's fists clenched tight for a moment.</p>
<p>
  <em>No good…good for nothing drunks, died in that car crash, and left you to be a burden on your decent, hard-working relatives!</em>
</p>
<p>"Brother," said Thor, trying yet again to ground him. Harry closed his eyes, breathing a few times, deeply, in and out, taking the advice he often gave to Hermione.</p>
<p>"Thank you, Sirius, Thor, I do appreciate both of your assistance. Sirius, if I recall, you were watching me work. You might return to where you were. I'm fine."</p>
<p>Sirius sent him an almost scathing look. "You are <em>not</em> fine. Stephen's got one good point, at least: that machismo prevalent in Asgard's warrior culture is almost as screwed up as <em>my</em> family's politics. All this acting as if you never need help. I'm British; I know the muggle phrase: 'stiff upper lip', but I think <em>you</em> take it too far, <em>Your Grace</em>."</p>
<p>"And by now I know that you never call me that but in reproach," Harry mused. He was ignoring Mrs. Black, for the moment, and thus he indecorously yanked her curtains shut again. "I suppose we'll leave <em>her</em> to stew for a bit. Well, it's easy enough for you and Thor, 'Asgard's quintessential youth' as Mother called him. You're very like Thor, Sirius. I suppose that's why we became such good friends to begin with. Nostalgia. But the two of you are tough enough that no one would <em>dare</em> to trifle with you. You can <em>afford</em> to show weakness, as I never could."</p>
<p>"Who hurt you, Brother?" Thor demanded, his deadly gravity returning. A twinge of conscience (<em>You're causing him to mother hen again, Harry</em>). He waved a hand in dismissal. <em>I retract my words.</em></p>
<p>"Oh, no one. Aside from any injuries you would expect to incur in battle. <em>Those</em> are inevitable. Your friend The Hulk is particularly alarming."</p>
<p>He tried to shrug it off, but he <em>hated</em> being to made to think of that part of his life.</p>
<p>"I was only saying that I always had to work thrice as hard to match you—and I did. I knew that you were all war and glory and combat, so I pushed myself as hard as I could. I assumed that you…well, that you would have no further use for me, otherwise. That's all. And despite that work, I was never strong enough to earn the approval of your circle of friends."</p>
<p>He stuck his hands in his pockets, which was never very satisfying. They were so voluminous it was like wrapping them loosely in denim. He didn't care what Stephen said. People were not supposed to share their feelings, especially if they revealed vulnerabilities.</p>
<p>"Brother…" Ron began, but clearly, he didn't know what further to say.</p>
<p>Sirius stared at Harry, as if he'd just said something utterly ridiculous. "They didn't think <em>you</em> were tough enough?" he repeated, voice dripping with incredulity. He rolled his left shoulder, not seeming aware of the action. "But your training's what kept us alive, during the war."</p>
<p>Harry shrugged. "If you wish to survive <em>this</em> war, then, I suggest you train with <em>Thor</em>. He is the best fighter among us. He lives to fight. He would quite enjoy it, and you would learn much from him."</p>
<p>"Will you speak for me, then, Brother?" Thor demanded. Harry shrugged, as if indifferent.</p>
<p>"If the shoe fits…" he said, spreading his hands wide. Sirius looked back and forth between them with mounting horror.</p>
<p>"No, thanks. If he <em>is</em> tougher than you, then I think he'd kill us accidentally. You might have sort of almost done that once or twice. Didn't understand the limits of us mere mortals, and all."</p>
<p>"His power is much diminished. You should give it a try," Harry mused, pondering why the idea hadn't occurred to him before. Or it had, and he hadn't forced the issue for whatever reason. He wasn't sure. It was a good idea.</p>
<p>Sirius sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, which was, Harry realised, about the same length and colour as his own, but much neater. There was a vague suspicion that, maybe…?</p>
<p>Nah.</p>
<p>"Look, Loki," Sirius said. "I know you love Asgard, and the people there, sort of, at least. Your parents, and all, and maybe you're somehow <em>not</em> one of their toughest warriors, which I don't believe for a second, by the way. But even given <em>that</em>, I have to say this: you were more than strong enough to hold your own against Voldemort, then <em>and</em> now. You were a good enough fighter to teach <em>us</em>, and even if you weren't tough enough, for whatever absurd reason back home, you're more than tough enough <em>here</em>. Pretty sure you could trounce anyone who tried to pick a fight with you, here. You're a god amongst humans, damn it! <em>Literally</em> a god amongst humans. If that doesn't count as tough enough, you need your definition of tough reevaluated. So, here, have a macho pass. You've got permission to have feelings, okay? Some backup would be nice here, Thor."</p>
<p>Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Forgive me, Brother. I know that I was then quite rash and self-centred. It did not occur to me that I was also hurting you. I never wished that you would merely be a younger version of myself. I know that Father, also, expected more of you, perhaps more than he expected from me. I should have seen that you were suffering. I should have done something."</p>
<p>Harry just shrugged and smiled, as if none of it mattered. "That is in the past. I have made my mistakes, as well. Were my mistakes not greater than yours?"</p>
<p>Silence. Harry's smile widened. "Good. Meeting adjourned, I suppose, until tomorrow. Good work, team."</p>
<p>Ron seemed a bit thrown by the sudden shift in demeanour, but Sirius took it in stride.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>They met up daily after that, to confront Sirius's mother's portrait. Harry had considered the attempt of the use of mind magics on her—wiping her memory, for instance, or confounding her. But although she looked and acted (almost) human, she was still a painting, and paintings have neither minds nor souls. Well, at least, he thought that photography seemed to function thus in the Wizarding World. Certainly, he thought that the gaps in his soul were not created by a camera. Perhaps a photograph captured also a reflection of its subjects' soul, an echo, or recording, but if that were the truth, why had the Marauders not used such as their inspiration for their "interactive" map?</p>
<p>His cancellation of the <em>sonorus</em> spell, strengthened by the Star Preserver spell, took, with the sort of permanence you would expect of any counterspell. That thread had been removed from the tapestry. Over the remaining weeks of his stay, Harry chipped away at the spells around the painting, until even Mrs. Black had to concede that he didn't use—couldn't possibly be using—wizarding magic to accomplish this. She grew warier of him.</p>
<p>Although he was unable to bind her round with promises, his initial analysis was correct: with no one <em>forced</em> to hear her voice, no one in the Order paid her any more heed than they would any other old pureblood supremacist. She considered all non-purebloods beneath her notice or address, anyway, limiting what she spoke to them to insults and threats. There were few purebloods in the Order of the Phoenix, and they were all "blood traitors", hardly better than muggleborns in her eyes. All she could do was stew.</p>
<p>Harry cast a <em>silencio</em> on her nonetheless, which took remarkably well.</p>
<p>"I have often heard you speak ill of muggleborns," he commented to her in their last conversation. "Tell me, Walburga Black: can <em>you</em> use magic?"</p>
<p>Her eyes narrowed into little slits. "I am a witch, you arrogant little demon!" she cried. "Of course I can do magic—"</p>
<p>"Then, cast the worst spell you can think of on me," he said with a smile, spreading his hands wide to create a better target. Sirius breathed in sharply, but apparently then held it. Ron left his sentry point, in case there was need of quick action. Which, had she been capable of using magic, would have been a valid concern.</p>
<p>Red filled her face, and she pulled out an old, knobby wand. "<em>Crucio</em>!" she cried, because, of course, an Unforgivable Curse was nothing to a portrait, and the default spell of its subject. "Unforgivable" meant nothing when your family was as old and as powerful as the Black family.</p>
<p>But nothing happened. Harry hadn't thought it would. Sirius exhaled in a sigh of relief. Ron clamped a hand on Harry's shoulder.</p>
<p>"That was very risky, Brother," he said. Mrs. Black began to screech at them about how they dared to mock her, and that Harry and Ron were unnatural and monsters, and demons, and who-knew-what-else, because no one was listening.</p>
<p>"Not really. Portraits can't use magic. They're impressions of people, not real individuals. They're a sort of <em>illusion</em>, I suppose you might say. My specialty, hmm? Sir Cadogan might have made his threats, but there was a reason that the 'Fat Lady' fled when Sirius attacked. She <em>couldn't</em> fight back, or even alarm anyone. Travel from one portrait to another they might, but nothing of a portrait ever leaves the walls. And for her to ever leave this portrait, she would also need to have it hanging upon the wall. Let's see what I can do about that."</p>
<p>Ron withdrew, somewhat sulky, but mollified by Harry's logic nonetheless, and…thoughtful.</p>
<p>"Well, Mrs. Black, it looks as if you're now a <em>muggle</em>, unable to use magic, just the same as those you so despise. Does this lifestyle please you? Do you think less of yourself, now you have no magic?Are you eager to be seen in such a state, unable to defend yourself, unable to cast even the simplest spell?"</p>
<p>Her eyes narrowed into slits. She was now a sort of livid colour, but heading for paper white. As with most pureblood supremacists, that sort of "insult" got right under her skin. And, if portraits could think, perhaps she was reconsidering the merits of being seen in such an embarrassing state. But her ability to influence Kreacher, and make Sirius miserable, seemed to win out against her affronted dignity.</p>
<p>"How dare you look down upon me, the last living member of the House of Black to bear the name with honour, preceded in death by my only true son, I—"</p>
<p>"<em>Silencio</em>," Harry snapped, before she could say anything else demeaning about Sirius. What was <em>wrong</em> with her? Even <em>he</em> knew that this was not how families were suppose to function.</p>
<p>He set to cutting <em>through</em> the hooks that made one substance of portrait and wall, hoping that as he cut through them, the hooks would become deactivated, dispersing into so much energy, and leaving an intact wall behind. Although he knew that Sirius wouldn't mind if that entire section of wall came down.</p>
<p>Remembering what he'd done at the closed border to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, he focused the <em>other</em> sort of magic, focusing it into something that passed for an invisible blade, too thin to be seen, but tough and sharp. Once again, however, being too short was an obstacle for him, although with this larger-than-life portrait, he doubted that anyone <em>was</em> tall enough to reach the top.</p>
<p>"I believe I need a broom," he said, with some dismay, but, to sample whether or not such a solution were even plausible, he cautiously cut through some of the hooks in the bottom left-hand corner, and watched them meld back into normal wall, the magic of them dispersing into the air. Well, at least now they had a plan. For that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeah, okay, it's a bit silly.  But...maybe, also, a bit fun?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Prefects of Better Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ron and Hermione are chosen as prefects, and there is a party to celebrate.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For those of you who never figured out why Harry can't tell why Sirius is lying, this chapter answers that question.  I meant for it to come up in Book IV,  but...well, I work with what I can get.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Hogwarts letters containing their list of required school supplies for the year (thankfully not including dress robes), came late this year. The reasons were many and varied—everyone's letters were late on account of "Troubles with the Ministry" (i.e. Ministry interference), fifth year was the year in which prefects were chosen, the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters were naturally difficult to find, which made the owls take longer than usual to make it through the thick, tangled ball-of-yarn of protective spells, McGonagall was a member of the Order—you name it, there was a problem every step of the way, from choosing prefects to finally receiving the letters. A muggle would have set up a P.O. Box, but Wizards didn't have that flexibility.</p>
<p>He didn't know how it worked, whether owls were granted specific exemptions for the delivery of official mail, or whether whoever wished to receive letters stood outside the confines of Grimmauld Place's defences, and all relevant letters were addressed to them. Given that the Weasleys continued to live at The Burrow, despite half of the children's extended sleepover here at Grimmauld, the latter seemed more likely. Regardless of <em>how</em>, the month of August was halfway through before Mrs. Weasley came, eager as a schoolgirl, herself to deliver the mail. One letter for Ron, one for Hermione, and the last for Harry. He took it with polite thanks, despite still not quite being able to trust her.</p>
<p>His letter, as expected, was little more than a welcome back to another year, combined with a list of new textbooks, including, as Fred and George had to point out, the new Defence book, a mildly interesting sounding one called <em>A Practical Guide to Defensive Theory</em>, by Wilbert Slinkhard. It sounded the sort of book that would give you advice on everything from strategy and tactics, to how to choose a basic arsenal of go-to defensive spells.</p>
<p>Instead, it was a long polemic in which the self-righteous author complained about how kids these days used spells he didn't like in their duels, giving long, technical explanations of his terms every page or so in the beginning (with a page being taken up for even the most basic terms, such as <em>hex</em> and <em>jinx</em>). Harry decided, then and there, that he hated both Slinkhard <em>and</em> his new professor, whoever he may be. That is, unless the book were assigned so that they might lampoon it over the course of the year. The book was difficult to take seriously. Even Hermione's brow could be seen to furrow as she read, the clearest marker of her disdain.</p>
<p>But, that was after Mrs. Weasley had bought the books and other supplies at Diagon Alley. For the moment, the trio gathered together, speculating on how this year would go.</p>
<p>Ron had been chosen as prefect, a position of great authority and honour. It seemed to fit; Harry had to admit that Ron had a powerful air of command that most listened to, sometimes without meaning to. Hermione, with her strict adherence to the written rule (for the most part) was a natural choice for the girls prefect position.</p>
<p>But, this left Harry in something of a lurch. Hermione and Ron were free to spend even more time together than they already did. Which meant that he'd be left alone. He would never have the authority to wander grounds after curfew. Perhaps, this meant no more nighttime excursions. And, he knew that there was always a threat lurking within Hogwarts, and he needed the flexibility.</p>
<p>But, Ron…Ron was not the sort to fault him, for such choices. Either Ron or Hermione would understand that, if he were wandering alone after curfew, the best thing to do would be to accompany him. First year alone had cured him of casual nighttime wandering. The greatest danger would come of him being left alone for extended periods of time. Suppose he had an episode?</p>
<p>But, he had the mirror Sirius had given him, before. Perhaps, it was time to make greater use of that gift. He shook his head, giving Ron a bright smile. "Congratulations! I suppose authority is inevitably drawn to you, then. Just as long as you're still willing to help with the inevitable crises. Don't take yourself <em>too</em> seriously."</p>
<p>"I don't believe this!"</p>
<p>"We thought you were a cert!" came the cries in the background. Harry ignored them, giving a rather awkward imitation of Ron's shoulder clap with intent so obvious that Ron couldn't overlook it, eyes filling with tears, even as Hermione danced up and down in excitement. What girl would pass up the opportunity to spend more time with her boyfriend, after all, even if things were complicated, and they were essentially on security detail? Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes, although he was unsure whether that would be in response to Fred-and-George, or Ron and Hermione.</p>
<p>"Ickle Ronniekins is a prefect? No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect," grumbled Ford. A moment of disconnect—<em>you don't know what I know</em>. Ron was the worthiest man chosen for the position in a long, long time. Or, perhaps, ever.</p>
<p>"No one in their right mind would choose anyone else," Harry corrected him, and then turned away, back to the still bubbly Hermione, who had decided that this news merited a celebratory kiss. Harry turned back to face them just as Hermione launched herself at Ron (who, of course, barely stumbled at all). and was kissing him…quite soundly.</p>
<p>This seemed to give the Twins pause. "Is…is Ickle Ronniekins—?" began Greg, in his most incredulous voice. Harry was about to suggest that they leave, to give the two some privacy, and maybe talk about the joke shop, when Mrs. Weasley burst in with a load of laundry, chattering about Hogwarts robes and going to Diagon Alley on the morrow by herself. She wondered what colour robes to get him—</p>
<p>"Get him red and gold, to match his new badge," spat Ford.</p>
<p>"What?" asked Mrs. Weasley. "Badge? What badge?"</p>
<p>"His shiny new <em>prefect</em> badge," said Greg, nose wrinkling in distaste.</p>
<p>"His—his! Oh, Ronnie, are you a prefect! That's wonderful; that's everyone in the family!"</p>
<p>"What are we, next-door neighbours?" demanded Greg, sounding as if he might genuinely be hurt at this exclusion. Mrs. Weasley was too transported with happiness to attend. Well, at least she wasn't overlooking Ron, for once.</p>
<p>"Oh, we'll have to get you something to celebrate. Let's see, you already have a new owl, so that's right out—"</p>
<p>"I don't need anything, <em>really</em>," said Ron, sounding almost like a human being, for once.</p>
<p>"Nonsense. I'm so proud of you. This is such an accomplishment. I did wonder, with your grades, and—!"</p>
<p>She had clearly missed Ron and Hermione kissing, which was probably a good thing. Harry bit his tongue to keep from making a suggestion or two about what Ron might want as a reward for becoming prefect—what he didn't already have, that was. Some were genuine, heartfelt suggestions, others…less polite.</p>
<p>Ron insisted that he would think about what sort of reward he wanted, and sighed as she finally retreated. Harry wondered if he were again considering himself the outcast intruder of the Weasley family. No matter how often you told yourself that it didn't matter, such thoughts were always liable to rear their heads.</p>
<p>"You'd best decide on something, quick. You don't want her to think that you're rejecting her gift, the way Percy would," Harry said, his tone tinged with just the right amount of reproach, arms loosely folded. Ron looked quite as uncomfortable as intended. "Think about it," Harry said, turning back away from the two of them, to face Greg and Forge.</p>
<p>"I need to have a word with you two," he said, eyes narrowed. For some reason, they gulped, and shuffled out of the room as if bound with manacles, on the way to the gallows.</p>
<hr/>
<p>To celebrate the new prefects, and Harry's vindication, Mrs. Weasley threw a small party, encompassing the entire downstairs. There were more than a few people present whom Harry didn't recognise, and parties were not his favourite things, regardless. He stayed near Remus and Sirius, because Ron and Hermione were inundated by well-wishers there to congratulate them, and advisors (he scowled: <em>he</em> was Ron's advisor; that was <em>his</em> job) reliving their own prefectures, noting off common problem areas. Moody was less helpful than others, talking about it putting them into the line of fire.</p>
<p>Hermione clung to Ron's arm as if her life depended upon it, perhaps a bit intimidated by Moody's thoroughly alarming description of the life of a prefect, which sounded disquietingly similar to that of an auror. Paranoid, indeed. But, yes, Ron could probably withstand most jinxes and hexes, although that couldn't possibly be the cause of his nomination.</p>
<p>Dumbledore chose the prefects? <em>Dumbledore</em>? He'd wonder this twice as hard when he learnt that Malfoy was the Slytherin prefect.</p>
<p>He spent some time with the remaining Marauders, who were inclined to reminisce about their school days, and the amount of trouble they'd caused. Remus shouldn't beat himself up so much; his dad and Sirius were <em>real</em> trouble-makers. If Remus'd blocked the door, they would have climbed over him; if he'd tried to take them down in a fight, they'd have outnumbered him; if he'd threatened to tell, they would have drugged his drink, blackmailed him, or snuck out. Keeping quiet ensured that he could at least stop the worst of their ideas.</p>
<p>"You made us feel ashamed of ourselves, sometimes. That's something," Sirius said. He leant back against the wall, surveying the room. He was the sort of person who did well at parties, but he was standing off to the corner nonetheless. Harry had to wonder whether it was on his account, or if it were, perhaps, another symptom of Azkaban.</p>
<p>"I can't believe that McGonagall docked one hundred and fifty points when Ron, Hermione, and I were trying to sneak an illegal dragon <em>off</em> the grounds! She said she'd never seen such behaviour before—"</p>
<p>"Well, she didn't want to encourage you; little did she know," said Remus, with a nod of understanding, as if he knew how she felt. Which, maybe, he did.</p>
<p>Ron and Hermione seemed to be enjoying themselves. Hermione was permanently flushed with pleasure at the endless stream of compliments and congratulations headed her way. It made Harry think that perhaps he should just go upstairs and…work on one of his projects? start packing? He wasn't sure. His tolerance for these sorts of situations had grown since he'd been reassembled a few months ago—or that was his impression. It was rather more like the old days, with him in the background, watching, and wondering what Father made of any of this. That couldn't be good for him.</p>
<p>Just as well that Ron was the elder, he supposed. Harry now knew all too well, how it was to have the weight of the world on your shoulders. He looked forwards to the day when Riddle was defeated, if only to be rid of that burden. Speaking of, was Dumbledore here? No? Was Dumbledore avoiding him?</p>
<p>"I've been very well-behaved," Harry protested. "It's only extenuating circumstance has bent around us, Ron, Hermione, and me. What the odds that I'd be chosen as the <em>Fourth</em> Triwizard Champion? Or that Scabbers was in truth that traitor Pettigrew? Why should the Chamber of Secrets be opened whilst I was in attendance at Hogwarts? Or the Philosopher's Stone hidden just as deep beneath the school?" He shook his head.</p>
<p>"That wasn't what I meant," Remus said. "It's only…you know, <em>before</em>." His gaze had turned distant, and wistful, again. Harry might have pressed him for more information, but Sirius reached towards the bottle of firewhiskey on the table, and Harry yanked it from his grip almost out of habit.</p>
<p>"I think not. <em>You</em> have had quite enough to drink," he said, voice so full of stern reproach that Sirius looked down at the floor, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Oh, honestly. Harry rolled his eyes. "You needn't behave exactly like my older brother, you know. Mother told me that she believed that her fondness of you, such as it was, was on account of your resemblance to <em>both</em> of us. I think I have more restraint than <em>this</em>. If you're missing us already, I might remind you that we'll return for the holidays."</p>
<p>"That is <em>such</em> an odd thought," Remus had to say. "I mean—"</p>
<p>"Spare me further introspection, Professor," Harry said. "Once a year is enough for me. I ought to have asked Ron his opinions last year…but I had more pressing concerns."</p>
<p>"The big revelation," Sirius said, nodding. "Now, <em>that</em> was a trip down memory lane. You should have told us that Thor was blond. Right little Draco Malfoy he was, then?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no," Harry said, shaking his head, and keeping an eye on Ron, almost out of pure habit. "He was never <em>that</em> bad. Malfoy is more of a Tony Stark, without the dry, sarcastic sense of humour, or…well, any other redemptive qualities."</p>
<p>Sirius winced. "Ouch," he said. Remus left them behind, having just spotted Tonks wobbling through the crowd. Harry was not entirely sure that Remus had heard the last few minutes of the conversation.</p>
<p>He realised that he was still holding the bottle of firewhiskey, and set it back onto the table.</p>
<p>"You've got some sort of breathalyser spell?" asked Sirius, remembering the previous topic, reminded by the sight of the bottle he'd tried to drain.</p>
<p>"No, but I do have some personal experience to fall back on. Of course, no one outdrinks Ron, but you seem to be trying your best to."</p>
<p>"He can't be drinking—he's underage!" Sirius cried, aghast. He did not seem to be thinking quite straight.</p>
<p>"Don't be a fool! He's been quite sober—knows better than to drink when it might affect his developing brain, or whatnot. He's done a poor job of explaining even what he knows of how all of this works… but given that proof, it wouldn't take much more than you've already had to put the average person under."</p>
<p>"And, you've always had to watch out for him, and because I <em>remind</em> you of him, you watch out for me," Sirius said. There was still a great deal of clarity in his eyes and his voice. Harry just stood there, with Sirius, against the back of the wall.</p>
<p>"I see I told you quite a bit," he said, at last, for the sake of exchanging pleasantries. He was not running away <em>quite</em> yet.</p>
<p>"Well, you did stay in this world for a few years," said Sirius, leaning forwards to set his empty glass on the table. He seemed to know better than to reach to pour himself another. "Maybe it seems brief to you, but there was quite a bit of time to discuss…things. I did complain a lot about my family, and you about yours. You're a bit easier to read now than you were then. But, I needed a lot of practice trying to figure out how much of what you said to trust. All the normal rules of spotting tells and whatnot never seemed to work on you." He leant back against the wall, using his arms as a cushion. If he wanted to go out and mingle, Harry wasn't about to stop him, but, for now, Sirius seemed content to watch from afar.</p>
<p>"I am the best at lying," Harry said. "Something I'm known for. Were you surprised?"</p>
<p>Sirius looked vaguely discomfited. "Well—perhaps a bit," he said. Harry frowned.</p>
<p>"What <em>I</em> don't understand is why <em>I</em> can't tell when you're lying. Riddle and Dumbledore make sense, to an extent. But you? Are you a master occlumens prodigious wizard of supreme power, or some such, and I didn't know it?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, that's it exactly," Sirius said, with his usual bland sarcasm. Deadpan.</p>
<p>"I <em>am</em> supposed to be the authority on such matters," Harry pressed, with such levity and casual indifference that Sirius had to know that it was eating away at him.</p>
<p>Sirius threw his head back and laughed. "How very typical. Hermione would want for me to chastise you for arrogance, I think, for those words. But, they're well-deserved; I won't tell her if you don't."</p>
<p>Harry waited. He was patient. He could outwait most people, and Sirius was very like Ron.</p>
<p>"As for why you can't tell when I'm lying, I learnt from the best," Sirius said, with a shrug. "It seemed an important skill to have, what with the coming war and all."</p>
<p>Harry paused, turning away from watching the guests of honour to face Sirius once more. Sirius looked incredibly smug. "Oh," was all that Harry could think to say, for a moment.</p>
<hr/>
<p>He had decided: Moody was insane. There was nothing else for it, no other plausible explanation for why he would take Harry aside to show him a photo of the damned. Harry had quite enough pictures of his parents that had no Wormtail in them, looking rather slimy and suspicious for no other reason than the sins he had probably not yet committed at the time the picture was taken. And, all those others…Benjy Flitwick, and the Prewetts (Ron's uncles), and the Longbottoms….</p>
<p>Well, that last had been a surprise, he supposed. Somehow, it had never occurred to him to think that Neville's parents might have been in the Order. Neville was so insecure, and clumsy, that Harry was not entirely sure he was fit for battle. And, he'd assumed that his parents had been the same. Now, he questioned both assumptions.</p>
<p>But, the cold way that Moody had spoken of all of those deaths, all the casualties of war—sure, he was an auror, and a sight better than the impostor last year, but it still seemed…cold.</p>
<p>"Frank and Alice Longbottom, excellent aurors, better dead than what happened to them—"</p>
<p>"Neville's parents? What happened to them?" he'd cut in, but Moody had shrugged him off.</p>
<p>"That's for your friend Neville to say. Dumbledore's orders. Not pleasant to talk about, that."</p>
<p>What an easy out! But, it bothered him, rather, that he'd never thought much about Neville's parents. Sure, he knew that Neville lived with his grandmother, but the <em>why</em> had never seemed that important, until now. They were still alive—you couldn't say "better dead than what happened to them" if they <em>were</em> dead, but that left a lot in the air. He should ask Neville, but after four years of silence on the matter, the subject would be difficult to bring up.</p>
<p>He'd trudged up the stairs, away from the party, exhausted, now, particularly after this bout of bad…well, it wasn't <em>news</em>, but it made for a series of hitherto unknown depressing stories. Moody might almost have done it deliberately.</p>
<p>On the way back to the room he was sharing with Ron, he heard the sound of someone crying nearby, loud, anguished wails. He paused in his tracks, redirecting his feet to the source of the distress. In the hallway, he stood outside the door, glancing in at Mrs. Weasley, knelt beside Ron's dead body.</p>
<p>Before he could overreact, his mind traveled down a series of tracks at a breakneck pace—Mrs. Weasley asking Moody to take a look at something upstairs—what was it? A boggart.</p>
<p>Ron and Hermione were practically attached at the hip, celebrating, downstairs.</p>
<p>"<em>Ri</em><em>—</em><em>Riddikulus</em>," Mrs. Weasley sniffed, and the image of Bill lay sprawled on the floor. Somehow, Harry doubted that Mrs. Weasley found that amusing. Sure enough, she gave another great wail, and cast the spell again. And again. And again. Percy. The Twins. Harry (now <em>that</em> was an odd moment, a disconnect that might have caused worse on down the line). Ginny.</p>
<p>Suddenly, it seemed imperative that he step in. This sort of thing <em>always</em> seemed to happen when he was around.</p>
<p>"<em>Exspecto patronum</em>!" he whispered, and the familiar light formed, rolling down like mist from a waterfall to settle at his feet. He knew that it was crucial to do this before coming in range of the boggart. Besides, his patronus was made of love. Its mere presence would help to restore Mrs. Weasley to herself.</p>
<p>He stepped towards her. "Come, Mrs. Weasley. It's alright," he said, pulling her to her feet with an iron grip that refused to let her fall back down. She seemed to have less awareness than usual of where she was (understandable), falling forwards across him, as if she couldn't stand on her own. He gently helped her to stand up straight, keeping a wary eye on boggart-Ginny.</p>
<p>"Oh—oh, Harry, I'm alright. You sh—shouldn't be worrying about me—I'm just a silly old woman, fancy being overwhelmed by a—a boggart—"</p>
<p>"No one thinks you're silly," Harry said, with deadly gravity. "No one thinks that a fear of seeing your loved ones dead is trivial or deserving of scorn." At least, he <em>assumed</em> that she was seeing her loved ones dead. Since he was amongst them, though, he was less than certain that that was what he'd seen.</p>
<p>He took a step too far forwards, and the boggart condensed itself into mist, and then formed a towering figure with hooded cowl. The patronus came between the two parties with a mere thought on Harry's part.</p>
<p>"<em>Riddikulus</em>!" he cried. In a moment, a figure clutching a scythe and wearing a pink dress took the place of the dementor, and the patronus charged at it, giving Harry the opportunity to pull Mrs. Weasley out into the hall. The patronus stood guard in the room beyond.</p>
<p>"Harry?" asked Remus, who was standing in the doorway. "Harry, what happened? I heard a scream. Molly, are you alright?"</p>
<p>Ever the concerned teacher, Harry thought. Mrs. Weasley stumbled over on unsteady feet. "It was—it was only a boggart. Oh, I'm so foolish, letting it get to me…I knew it was only a boggart."</p>
<p>"I turned it into a dementor," Harry said, as if this were a good thing. "I have my patronus guarding it."</p>
<p>"Harry, you shouldn't be using magic outside of school," Remus said, with what seemed to be an attempt at reproach. Harry just smiled at him. Remus conceded defeat with a frown.</p>
<p>"Mrs. Weasley, it is <em>not</em> ridiculous or contemptible, nor any sort of sign of weakness. No one will think less of you if a boggart manages to get under your skin."</p>
<p>"Oh, and you did magic to protect me, too," she warbled. He was starting to think that she was a lost cause. "I see them dead all the ti—time!" Mrs. Weasley sobbed, reaching out for Remus as a source of comfort.</p>
<p>"Harry—?" Remus asked.</p>
<p>"Dead family members," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.</p>
<p>"Oh, Molly," Remus began, his voice calm and soft, as if speaking to a child. Harry took that as his cue to leave.</p>
<hr/>
<p>During the time Hermione spent memorising her textbooks, Harry and Ron accompanied Sirius and Remus to what looked as if it might have been intended as some sort of small ballroom or sitting room, before Sirius had cleared it out. It stood empty, barring the alcoves in the walls. He turned to Ron, standing just to the side of the door, and held out the Sword of Gryffindor.</p>
<p>"The Sorting Hat did tell me to lend this only to those worthy of it. And, I did say at the time that that was limiting its wielders to only you and me," Harry said, handing over the Sword to Ron, for the second time. Only, now, he knew how Ron knew how to hold a sword. Progress.</p>
<p>Harry walked the perimeter of the walls, and was both surprised and unsurprised to feel a strong undercurrent of a lingering, familiar energy embedded into the walls themselves. Of course, it would linger for twenty years.</p>
<p>He wouldn't have drawn it back out—it wasn't the sort of spell that <em>would</em> be drawn back out. But, while it still held strong, he doubted it was sufficient to ensure the integrity of the room. Not only was the spell old, and not as strong as it had been at the start, but Harry had also been completely accurate in claiming Ron to be the greater fighter by far. Even with his power diminished to half or a third of his true strength, it would be more than sufficient to reduce the walls to rubble. Besides, with an auror in the house, and Dumbledore, he needed stronger wards than before. Silencers. This all had to remain top-secret. He made the rounds of the room, trailing his hand along the wall, reinforcing what wards there were, and then some. Ron was a force of nature…Harry wasn't sure he even knew <em>how</em> to hold back.</p>
<p>And, if things got too exciting, Harry himself might need to intervene. He finished his circuit, and turned to face Sirius and Remus.</p>
<p>"Well! Are you both ready?" he asked.</p>
<p>"There's no need—" Sirius began.</p>
<p>"I—er, the full moon is two weeks away," Remus protested feebly.</p>
<p>"Go for it, Ron," Harry said, with a shrug. Ron beamed as if his birthday had come early. Harry was fairly sure that he at least knew that Sirius and Remus could somewhat hold their own.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeah, the ending is a bit weak...but, it does stuff.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Awkward Meetings, Awkward Partings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry returns to Hogwarts under a cloud of suspicion and scrutiny.  Some things never change, but perhaps Hogwarts isn't one of them.  At least Gryffindor has his back, unlike second year.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>archival author's note:</b> Really, I should have thought this through, better.  I'll fill in chapter summaries and respond to comments, or whatever else, after I've voted (which has to be a higher priority, sorry), and successfully imported the next few chapters onto my computer.  As I said: I really planned this poorly.  Sorry!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although Cedric occasionally appeared, and had indeed joined the Order, there was little opportunity to speak with him, let alone recruit him for the task of fighting Mrs. Black's portrait. As one of the youngest members of the new Order of the Phoenix, he was frequently under intense watch regardless, as if someone (most likely Moody) suspected that he would, at any moment, change his mind, and decide to turn tail and run. On the plus side, this meant that he was one of the few chosen to accompany "the kids" to the station on the day they left for Hogwarts.</p><p>It was a bit suspicious that Sturgis Podmore, whom everyone stated to be a reliable member of the Order, had failed to show up. The common opinion was that he was getting old and rather scatterbrained. Moody thought no more of it than that, which, Harry decided, meant that he himself was even more paranoid than the ex-auror. Four years at Hogwarts ensured that he knew to expect danger around every corner, even without any knowledge of what he was looking for.</p><p>Guard duty. A weapon. Sturgis Podmore had never shown up. What manner of weapon was this, then? The sort, perhaps, that affected those too long exposed? But then, surely, Dumbledore would have made his excuses. Dumbledore must have thought that Podmore's slack was due to natural causes. Or he hadn't known, or his verdict disagreed with Moody's. Still, incompetence rarely flared so abruptly. Maybe it was nothing, but….</p><p>Cedric was friendly, but, as if spooked, said little to Ron or Harry further than a basic "hello". Harry didn't know what he'd expected—Hermione had scarce been any better, but then, she'd had less time. Perhaps, Cedric just didn't know <em>how</em> to react when there were others watching. He hadn't spilt the secret (he was no fool) but it was still rather suspicious how little he was willing to interact with either of them. Perhaps, Harry should have said something, but he was too busy speaking with Sirius, who seemed more than a bit concerned.</p><p>"Look, Harry," he said, pulling the trio aside with these words, at the station itself. "You have to realise that Voldemort will realise soon that he has a connection to your mind. Practise occlumency, and <em>do not go to the Department of Mysteries</em>. It's the prophecy he's after."</p><p>He pulverised Harry's ribs in a bear hug, or did his best, and then clapped Harry on the shoulder in a very Ron move. "You take care of yourself," he said. "No dying this year, okay?"</p><p>Harry rolled his eyes, and gave a fond shake of his head, rolling his own shoulder. "That goes <em>double</em> for you," he said, remembering what Stephen had said. Any trace of humour vanished from his face and voice.</p><p>Oh, he remembered Stephen's warning. Now it approached, the year he would learn, at last, whether the future could be changed in any major way, and if not, how it was that Sirius had died. "We have had too little time together. And, I recall but little of it. You are the guardian of a burden and a secret. I know that you hate the house in which you were raised, but you at least have the liberty of leaving. If you feel inclined to do something stupid, I urge you to find some different way of venting your frustration."</p><p>"Did something happen, Harry?" he asked, stare so intense that Harry would have thought he was reading his mind. Somehow, it made sense that Sirius would be the one to notice. That Sirius would realise that something was eating away at him. And, while Harry could have lied, said that it was nothing, said that he was concerned about the coming war(s), said that the Ministry's inaction and scepticism were eating away at him, it was more tempting, for more important reasons, to put him on his guard. But, what could he say, when he didn't know the circumstances, himself? When Stephen didn't know?</p><p>"Stephen said that you would die this year," was all that he said, but he was unable to meet Sirius's gaze. "Sorcery is not like wizarding magic. I will see if the future cannot be changed. But, this year, if I were you, I would take greater consideration of my own safety."</p><p>At the end of the year. That gave him over nine months to figure out the hows and whys, and to prevent it. They just needed to make it there, first.</p>
<hr/><p>The train ride to Hogwarts was a quiet affair. Sirius and company sent the six of them off with as little fanfare as possible, which was to say: with much fanfare. Harry was surprised that they didn't attract the attention of the entire station. Sirius gave him another crushing hug, attempted to extract a promise from Harry that he'd be extra careful, failed, but was at last obliged to let Harry go board the train.</p><p>Moody filled his head with paranoid warnings, and reminded him to set up his Foe-Glass that very night, first thing. CONSTANT VIGILANCE, and it never hurts to start looking for threats at the very beginning. It hadn't saved Moody, but it had served Harry well enough, thus far. To Hermione's horror, Moody gave Harry a few more tips, before nodding his approval and heading off.</p><p>"Good luck, Harry," Cedric said. "Ron, Hermione. O.W.L. year is tough, but you'll make it. Just, be careful. I've heard rumours that the new Defence professor was chosen by the Ministry. She won't make things easy for you."</p><p>The first whistle blew, and Harry knew from experience, third year, that he might well be late if he didn't take his chance now. He thanked Cedric for the warning, and boarded the Hogwarts Express.</p><p>Hermione and Ron had to warn him that they had to go off and learn about being prefects, meaning that, for the first time, Harry would be taking the Hogwarts Express without Ron to keep him company. And, watch him to make sure he didn't do anything…suspicious.</p><p>Ginny caught up with him, just then, and he reconsidered it all being bad luck. Of course, he <em>was</em> sort of still dating her best friend….</p><p>And speaking of strange coincidences and fate, the only empty—or mostly empty—compartment that he could find had only one occupant: Luna. He'd picked up Neville along the way, somehow, and discovered that Neville was a bit alarmed by Luna, as many people, of those who didn't know her, were.</p><p>He opened the compartment door, and beamed. "Luna!" he said, surprised at how pleased he was to see her again. Ginny crossed her arms and huffed. Harry sat down next to Luna, with little preamble. "I hope you don't mind if we join you."</p><p>"Hello, Ginny, Neville," Luna said, in her usual, dreamy voice. She was looking at a copy of her father's magazine, <em>The Quibbler</em>, upside down. Something about horoscopes and runes, but you had to read it upside down.</p><p>"I'll lend it to you when I'm done," Luna said, in her sternest voice. He sighed, and then shrugged. He could wait.</p><p>Neville entered the compartment with as much caution as you would expect if it were highly booby-trapped, and any misstep might kill. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as Neville chose a seat as far from Luna as possible. You would think, both being the outcasts and generally ridiculed, that Neville might extend a hand of friendship to Luna. Apparently not, however. She was just too "weird". Apparently, Neville was exempt from the "birds of a feather" rule.</p><p>Just for that, Harry considered asking him about his parents, out of the blue. But…suppose it <em>were</em> a sensitive issue? He knew he wouldn't want anyone to bring up his parents that way. He thought back to Stark's actions over dinner. No, he definitely didn't want to be another Stark.</p><p>He shook his head, and slung an arm around Luna's shoulder, instead. "Did you have a good summer, Luna?" he asked. "<em>Did</em> you miss me?"</p><p>"I missed your birthday," she said, as if what he had said were confusing and difficult to follow. "It's sometime in August…?"</p><p>"July Thirty-First," he corrected her. "But, I don't think I ever asked yours, so you're okay."</p><p>She hmmed, and nodded, and returned to her magazine. Not much for prompts, was Luna.</p><p>"The <em>Daily Prophet</em> is printing even more rubbish than usual," Luna said, her voice <em>almost</em> normal. "They've spread all sorts of lies about you."</p><p>He smiled across at her. "It's sweet of you to worry," he said, "but I'm quite used to it."</p><p>Luna gave a vague sort of dreamy nod, and returned to what she'd been doing.</p><p>An hour later, Ron and Hermione had made their rounds, Neville had humiliated everyone by covering them in stinksap (which Ginny, sensibly, had vanished, with many muttered insults directed at Neville); Cedric's girlfriend had dropped in to say that she believed in Harry, and that she was grateful to him for saving Cedric; and Luna was still working on that exercise in <em>The Quibbler</em>. Trying to drag her attention from it was a fruitless task. You'd think Xenophilius would let his only child take a peek at the newest issue of <em>The Quibbler</em> before anyone else. Of course, maybe she was almost done with it?</p><p>"You might order your own," Luna said, reproachfully.</p><p>It occurred to him that he'd never spoken to her of the Dursleys. "My—relatives would not appreciate that. They…aren't very fond of magic. Or anything different."</p><p>"They might have an infestation of—"</p><p>"I think they're just bad people, Luna," he cut across her. The Dursleys were a bit of a sensitive subject, and he was not hearing anything that in any way exonerated them. They were responsible for their own actions, and he had complete faith that, between him and his mother, one or the other would have noticed if <em>anything</em> were influencing them.</p><p>"I've never seen your house," Luna conceded. "I suppose that you know best."</p><p>He folded his hands in his lap, and wished that he dared to take out his notes. But, how would he explain those? He leant back, hands behind his head, and <em>thought</em>.</p><p>He was still thinking when the compartment door slid open, and Hermione and Ron entered. He leapt to his feet to help them stow away their luggage, glad for a reprieve from the sullen stiffness permeating the carriage, between Ginny's and Neville's personal bad humours. Theirs might not have been an amicable split-up. Part of him hoped that he were the cause. That was a very selfish thought to have, of course.</p><p>He found that these thoughts led him naturally to recall what he'd been thinking at the end of last school term, again. If he didn't <em>love</em> Luna, then wasn't that also selfish, to date her when he knew that nothing could come of it?</p><p>He frowned, and thought about a great many unimportant things over the course of the train ride. Somehow, Ron and Hermione's mere presence made even his introspection more bearable.</p><p>Malfoy showed up, far into the train ride, to make snide remarks, and barely veiled threats against them all. That was almost a reassurance, at this point. Malfoy was still Malfoy, still a soulless jerk, which meant that the world was still consistent and reliable, at least to an extent. Malfoy was one of the constants of the world.</p><p>The trolley witch peeping in with a friendly smile to enquire as to whether or not they wanted any sweets was, likewise, a staple of the train ride. It was far more usual than the ride had been up to this point, sitting in a sort of tense silence that perhaps even Luna was reluctant to break.</p><p>Ron ignored social convention as if it were beneath him (which it probably was), lightening the atmosphere with his usual good humour and amiability. Hermione sat beside him with a fond smile, and listened, for the most part. Harry even managed to keep Neville from a repeat performance of the exploding stinksap pustules.</p><p>That was it for constants, apparently, unless you counted the thestrals pulling the carriages, as they always had. Harry was not inclined to count them any more than he usually counted the Hogwarts ghosts and Peeves, or the moving stairways, or having homework assignments, essays, and detentions, when deciding whether or not a year was ordinary. Thestrals were a fixture of Hogwarts, one that he took for granted, and duly ignored, although this year would change that.</p><p>He rode in a carriage shared with Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna, as if they were not to be separated.</p><p>But, they <em>were</em> separated, at the entrance to Hogwarts. By then, Harry had already realised that this year was going to be somehow unusual—for it wasn't <em>Hagrid</em> calling in the rowdy first years for their first tip across the lake. He'd seen that woman before—she'd subbed for Hagrid last year after Skeeter had published her article about Hagrid's mum. He'd thought never to see her again. Had he missed another Skeeter article? But, no, Hermione had insisted that she'd boxed Skeeter into silence, right? Perhaps another writer for <em>The Daily Prophet</em>?</p><p>There was a certain measure of reassurance to be found in the routine of Hogwarts life. The Sorting Hat sang its annual song, Professor McGonagall called up students alphabetically by surname to be sorted, Dumbledore gave a brief speech before the start-of-term feast. But, even in these things there was a strange, disheartening tang. The Sorting Hat's song was full of portents, giving warning of impending disaster (watch out for the ascended Voldemort!), and tales of bygone times. Professor McGonagall seemed more worn out than usual. And Dumbledore's introductory speech was interrupted by a familiar, squat, toad-faced woman. How was it even possible for a human being to have such a wide, flabby face?</p><p>"Not <em>her</em>, again," Harry muttered. "<em>That's</em> Dolores Umbridge, 'Senior Undersecretary to the Minster'. She was at my hearing."</p><p>At least at his hearing, she hadn't treated him as if he were five years old. Her general condescension to the student body raised hackles all over the room, even amongst the Slytherins, who somehow managed to keep this fact more or less to themselves. There were, however, a few muttered imprecations under their collective breath against the Ministry spy in their midst.</p><p>By the end of her little speech, Harry'd decided that he despised her: His "trial" had not been an isolated incident, it seemed. She had also skyrocketed to pretty much the very top of his list of threats: Riddle was higher, of course, but only he, as any and all other threats Harry could think of lay in the future—decades into the future. There was now a question, with a spy in the castle, of how they would continue to meet up with Stephen. He'd definitely need a warning, the next time he visited.</p><p>Or was that a "probably"? Harry didn't think it plausible that <em>any</em> of their future selves forget Umbridge. Any who would overrule—symbolically speaking; that was what talking over him meant—Dumbledore, showed that they had no respect for him, which made her even more dangerous. Umbridge <em>would</em> fulfil the Ministry agenda, with no regard given for Dumbledore's authority, for the respect usually accorded him.</p><p>Still, he didn't think the main message to be taken from her long, meandering speech was that the Ministry was interfering at Hogwarts. That was the diluted, softened interpretation that you might use to explain a dangerous concept to children. She was threatening to overhaul the entire educational system, keeping those aspects of which the Ministry approved, and "pruning" those of which it disapproved. Those that could prove "dangerous" to the Ministry. Which probably included most <em>practical</em> lessons, the ones that would teach them to fight, the ones that would teach them to survive. "Interfering at Hogwarts" did not do this threat justice.</p><p>His fellow yearmates looked more than a bit alarmed at the prospect of a year with Umbridge. Nor was that their only problem. As the Order and Luna had both told him, <em>The Daily Prophet</em> had been spreading lies about him. For the first time in three years, Gryffindor students turned against him, in light of the slander of Cornelius Fudge, and the libel of journalists following in the wake of Skeeter. Thankfully, no one on the quidditch team, and none of his dorm mates, believed the lies.</p><p>Seamus Finnigan, when asked, just shrugged. "Mam reads the paper, but she already thought you were a rabble rouser. I've been nicking as many papers as I can and burning them in the fireplace; it's a better use for them."</p><p>"My mum doesn't know about what happened last June, because I never told her," Dean said. "Knew she'd overreact, and all…."</p><p>Angelina, the new quidditch captain, just informed him that quidditch tryouts would be a week from today, on the eighth, and that she wanted the entire team to attend, that she might see how well they worked together. <em>That</em> was refreshing.</p><p>But, it was disheartening, how many of the lower years mistrusted him (even in Gryffindor), who didn't know him as well (mostly, granted, third years and below, bar Dennis Creevey, who still idol-worshipped him alongside Colin). But, well, what had Dumbledore said to Hagrid last year? "If you're holding out for a hundred percent approval, I'm afraid that you'll be in here for a very long time"?</p><p>Hagrid's mysterious absence was much greater cause for concern than Harry being ostracised by most of the school a few months early. Lockhart had had <em>one</em> thing right: Fame was a "fickle friend".</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. An End Is Just a New Beginning (And Other Trite Nonsense)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Luna breaks up with Harry.  Harry has his first Defence lesson with Umbridge.  Basically, Harry has a bad week.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>note:</strong> With my thanks to AshTinuviel, for letting me borrow their headcanon of an aro ace Luna.  I hope I did that scene justice.<br/>(Are you still here?  Oh, well.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The confrontation with Luna came on the next day, which, although a Saturday, was an extended reprieve from classes (first years benefited the most from this, as it allowed them to find their classes ahead of schedule).</p>
<p>The Great Hall was a communal area, one of the few places where students of all four houses, and all seven years, could be found in the same place, at the same time. This was important because Luna was both a year below him, and a member of a different house. He knew where the Ravenclaw dorms were, and had even managed to get inside them several times last year. But, the Great Hall was the most convenient place for a confrontation, especially early in the morning, when almost no one was around. Yet.</p>
<p>Of course, he wasn't the one to push a confrontation. That was also part of the reason this was happening at that specific location and time. Luna, after all, could not enter the Gryffindor Tower without the password, and Harry did not go about handing that out to anyone. The passwords were a silently guarded secret.</p>
<p>But, this meant that Luna had no choice, if she wished to speak to him on her own, but to either miss a class or two to find him at one of his, or wait for him at the Great Hall; thus, this latter was the course of action she took. After all, as the Sorting Hat had once said, a ravenclaw never slacked on his classwork.</p>
<p>And, to be fair, Harry had, sort of, unconsciously gravitated in that direction, still rather exhausted, but full of pent-up energy. Dreaming of the dark corridor tended to make him restless, even when he was exhausted. This, added onto a certain amount of dread as to what Umbridge would do to Hogwarts, had made it difficult to sleep. He otherwise would not have arrived this early, so it was just as well.</p>
<p>That didn't make him any less the startled when Luna was suddenly in his field of vision, as if she were a mirage, or perhaps a ghost who could rise up from the floor, seeming to appear without warning.</p>
<p>"Hello, Luna," he said, trying to keep himself from taking a step backwards. A hasty glance behind him showed that Ron and Hermione were already sitting at the Gryffindor table, discussing their upcoming courses, no doubt. Or rather, <em>Hermione</em> would be discussing the courses, whilst Ron listened. He tried to calculate the odds that he make it to the table without Luna heading him off.</p>
<p>"Hello, Harry," said Luna, in a voice that was much less dreamy than he was accustomed to. "I was hoping to talk to you."</p>
<p>He blinked. It was too early for this. That phrasing, furthermore, suggested that this discussion would not be enjoyable for him.</p>
<p>"Should I sit down at the ravenclaw table, or would you like to join me at the gryffindor one?" he asked, with as much politeness as he could muster. His voice sounded a bit strained, even to him.</p>
<p>"Oh, no. This won't take very long," said Luna, with a sort of vague smile that was very familiar to him.</p>
<p>But, there was a certain distance between them, something he could almost sense, as if a wall had sprung up over the summer, when he had not been properly attending. Intellectually, he understood that he could reach out for her, that no physical barrier separated them. But, that was only intellectually.</p>
<p>He glanced back at the Gryffindor table again, as if for backup, but Ron and Hermione were in their own little world, and he knew better than to interfere. He turned back to Luna, and smiled, as if nothing troubled him at all. "What do you need, Luna?"</p>
<p>Luna was one of those people who sometimes seemed to exude confidence, when in reality, they simply failed to realise that they were in a situation where most would consider it necessary.</p>
<p>Also, the niceties of society sometimes eluded her—as they also escaped him. The only two people she had who might lend her moral support were Harry and Ginny, in any case, and Ginny had yet to appear for breakfast. He was acutely aware of this fact.</p>
<p>"I think we should break things off," Luna said, still with that vague sort of smile, which was fodder for a severe disconnect, as if he'd just misheard her. That seemed the most likely conclusion to draw, anyway, if you thought about it. Why would she say such a thing, after all?</p>
<p>"What?" he asked, accordingly. She just gave him her usual, dreamy smile for a second, and then it faded a bit.</p>
<p>"Do you love me, Harry?" she asked, swaying where she stood, and looking at her shoes for no particular reason. He noticed that she <em>had</em> shoes, which meant that the flyers she'd stapled to the Ravenclaw notice board (amongst many others; he'd helped her with some of them) had worked, as she'd promised.</p>
<p>He frowned. That was direct. Didn't people usually lead up to this sort of talk? But, he remembered, still, what he'd thought at the end of last year.</p>
<p>"No," he said, "But—"</p>
<p>"Then why would you wish to continue dating, when there are other people around whom you might love? It seems rather silly to me. And, rather selfish."</p>
<p>He stared at her for a moment. "…'Selfish'?" he repeated, a bit nonplussed. "I thought…you were at least happy. I didn't want to upset you, and I thought…maybe we could work things out. Isn't that how relationships go? There are high points, and low points—?"</p>
<p>"I'm not the sort of person for you, Harry. I went with you to the Yule Ball as a favour to Ginny, you know. And, you were genuinely interested in the things I talked about, so I thought it wouldn't hurt, to date you, especially since no one else would ever be interested in the weird ravenclaw girl who talks about creatures that don't exist—"</p>
<p>"They might exist!" Harry burst in, full of indignation at close-minded people's dismissal of Luna, her father, and their beliefs. "I dismiss nothing out of hand! And, don't think that no one would ever be interested—"</p>
<p>"But, that's just it," Luna said, with a thoughtful <em>hmm</em>. "I don't think I'm interested. It was an informative experience, but it made me realise that I'm not interested in dating. I don't mind. It gives me more time to learn and explore ideas about hidden creatures. And, you have other responsibilities."</p>
<p>Harry could feel his heartrate increase to thrice its usual rate. Luna, he knew, had the disquieting habit of speaking as if she knew the world's great secrets. As if she knew who he was, what he was, a thing that was a mystery, still, even to him.</p>
<p>"I…" there was little he could say to gainsay this, and he knew it. He knew it even as he began his sentence. It seemed highly unjust, when everything was in flux anyway, that he should lose this, too. But, perhaps he <em>was</em> being selfish. Holding Luna back.</p>
<p>"If you don't love me, perhaps there's someone out there who does. And, I <em>know</em> there's someone who loves you that way. Why should I stand in your way? Besides…I rather think you'll need all of your focus on the battles to come. The Ministry won't make things easy for you."</p>
<p>Harry bowed his head, suddenly feeling very much like <em>Harry Potter</em>, the Harry he'd been before he'd turned ten, and everything had changed. He thought he was expected to fight this, but he didn't have it in him. Luna was right. He had to save his strength. But now, he couldn't look her in the eyes. "Yeah, okay," he said, subdued.</p>
<p>He had to look up when he felt a heavy impact, Luna crashing into him, throwing her arms around him in a very brief hug, before she pulled away, setting him at a distance.</p>
<p>"Don't look so glum, Harry! We can still be friends, you know. I'll always be there, if you need me," she sang, and then, before he could react, she'd whirled around, heading to the Ravenclaw table. She was right. That hadn't taken long. It had only seemed to.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Luna declared her support for him as they passed by her on their way to Herbology on Monday. This was a class that, as always, they shared with the Hufflepuffs, who, apparently, Cedric had galvanised, unifying them into a band of Ministry propaganda-fighting revolutionaries, before he'd graduated Hogwarts, going on to study…whatever he'd decided to study. Last Harry heard, he'd been considering pursuing the medical route, like Cho Chang, his girlfriend.</p>
<p>Harry forced his mind away from thoughts of Luna, as she zipped off to her next class, with a cheery wave.</p>
<p>"Did something happen?" asked Hermione. His only reply was to speed up, to reach the greenhouses first. Hermione, who apparently was made of the same type of stubborn as Ron, ran to catch him up. "Did…did you and Luna <em>break up</em>?" she asked, with a familiar sort of insensitivity, the same that had left Lavender in tears last year.</p>
<p>He glared at her; she flinched and froze. Ron spun him around to give Hermione a reprieve. But, he didn't seem reproachful. He nearly suffocated Harry in a hug. Hermione joined in, because both Ron and Hermione were the sorts who thought hugs were helpful. Harry sighed, resigned to their behaviour, as he waited for Professor Sprout to appear to come save him. He remembered Sirius's words about machismo, and then Stephen's. But, a habit that deeply-engrained doesn't just go away.</p>
<p>That was not the end of drama for the class, in which Ernie Macmillan loudly declared his faith in Harry, as if to make up for second year, when he'd thought Harry the Heir of Slytherin. And, it <em>was</em> somewhat gratifying, to have someone like that in his camp, this time around. As if Macmillan had grown up, or opened his eyes, realising that rumour was not always to be trusted.</p>
<p>Still, it was hard to think too highly of someone who made it so clear that he thought that Luna was a weirdo.</p>
<p>He wasn't sure <em>how</em> he'd expected things to go, but however it had been, he <em>hadn't</em> expected it to be this way. Weren't romantic relationships supposed to last longer than half a year? Or even nine months? But then…he'd never felt that strongly about Luna, had he? She was right; she'd just been his date to the Yule Ball, and then…he'd thought it wouldn't hurt to try dating her. He should probably have broken things off, himself, before summer. Given her a chance to stretch her wings, or whatever stupid metaphor or analogy was applicable to this case.</p>
<p>And, with both Riddle and the Ministry after him…he didn't want to drag anyone into that, just because of their close association with him. Ron, Sirius, and Hermione were inevitable victims. But Luna, and Ginny, and all of his other associates… he couldn't control their choices, of course (not that he'd <em>want</em> to, he thought, thinking of Unforgivable Curses, and older fears). But, even if he couldn't make their choices for them, he could still keep some heat off of them, make them less of a target by proxy. He wasn't stupid enough to think that it wasn't too late to protect Ron and Hermione thus—they were too well-known as his associates. But Neville, and Dean, Tonks and Remus, Luna and Ginny…<em>maybe</em> he could keep the Ministry's eyes off them.</p>
<p>If, that was, they weren't, for the most part, gryffindors, and thus devoid of any sense of self-preservation.</p>
<p>Ernie was a member of the house of justice, fairplay—the Ministry was violating any sense of common decency by their actions. Even without loyalty or friendship to consider, a hufflepuff would balk at Harry's treatment, which was unjustified <em>and</em> unjust.</p>
<p>Not that Ernie would ever learn just <em>how</em> unjust the treatment was. Had the Wizarding World, or the ICW, ever signed the Geneva Convention? That muggle treaty that had outlawed torture, classifying it as a war crime? Or were Umbridge's actions technically okay? This was, of course, the sort of thing that Hermione later invested many hours into researching. Once she finally found out.</p>
<p>It all started on the first day of Defence Against the Dark Arts (usually Harry's best class, as he well knew how useful it was i.e., far more useful than tapdancing pineapples, or turning matchsticks into needles, although Charms and Transfiguration were both becoming more useful as they reached higher-level magic).</p>
<p>Their textbook was the single least inspired textbook Harry had seen in his entire life, but Hermione had somehow managed to memorise it. He swore that she and Stephen had that same photographic memory, and it wasn't a matter of true intellect at all. Not that it mattered; he was still the best <em>mage</em> of them, even if he ignored the theory behind wizarding magic—who needed it?</p>
<p>But, if the textbook was bad (and it was) it was as <em>nothing</em> next to their new professor. Her condescension at the Welcome Feast was indicative of her usual demeanour. She was no less patronising now, standing before the entire class for the first session, lecturing them all on how subpar their professors had all been—bar Quirrell, who "at least stuck with the Ministry-approved curriculum".</p>
<p>He bit his lip to keep himself from making some sort of obvious comment. Something to the effect that, if <em>Voldemort</em> were the one following their criteria, perhaps they should rethink what those were. It was heartwarming to hear Dean vouch for Professor Lupin, rightly claiming that he was the best Defence teacher they'd ever had, when she made her comment about "dangerous half-breeds" that they'd been "exposed" to.</p>
<p>Harry liked to think that he had a great deal of self-control, but an insult to one of his oldest friends just <em>could not</em> be overlooked. He spoke, into a tension in the room so thick that the rest of his classmates could scarcely breathe, let alone laugh at what would ordinarily be considered some rather amusing insults. "Just because you're insecure about your appearance does not make you a <em>dangerous half-breed</em>," he said. "I doubt that you're even that dangerous, frankly, as your eyes are clearly too weak to notice that—"</p>
<p>"Harry, <em>shut up</em>!" Hermione hissed in his ear. He sat there, eyes narrowed at Umbridge, daring her to react. Hermione had best not interrupt him, next time.</p>
<p>A glance in Ron's direction showed that he was looking stolidly at his desk, brooding, fists clenched. Next time, he was sure, it would be arranged that Ron and Harry sat next to each other, that they might check each other. For now, Hermione was left as insufficient guard against Harry's impulses. Which, he supposed, might prevent him from taking any <em>physical</em> action against her—if he tried anything too extreme, Ron would abandon all (or was that only <em>most</em>?) pretence to stop him—but there was little they could do to keep him from goading her.</p>
<p>And, nothing they could do to prevent her punishing him. "Ten points from gryffindor," she said, eyes gleaming in triumph. Harry turned <em>very</em> wary at this sight. He did not want to fall into any of her traps. And, he <em>had</em> just exposed an easily-exploitable weakness…he should have thought, Remus had warned him that this woman was the reason he'd had such trouble finding a job after his graduation. Now, he'd have to expose another weakness, to prevent—or discourage—exploitation of this one. Or a false weakness, a ruse? He now realised that he'd planned too little in advance.</p>
<p>She continued on, flicking her wrist so that the course aims appeared on the blackboard in the front of the room. He copied down the course aims without taking in any of the words, which he was sure were all rather inconsequential propaganda. Hermione being Hermione, however, she'd read and memorised the course aims, already, and already picked them apart. Despite her earlier claims, she was aiming to call Umbridge's attention to her, to pick a fight, just as Harry just had. <em>What</em> was she thinking?</p>
<p>"Do you have a question about the reading, dear?" asked Umbridge. Hermione flinched almost imperceptibly at being addressed thus. But, she shook her head in a frothy wave of frizzy curls.</p>
<p>"Not about the chapter, no," she began, and Umbridge cut her off.</p>
<p>"Well, I'm afraid that that's what we're working on right now. Please return to your reading—"</p>
<p>"I've a question about your course aims," Hermione cut in, with dogged determination. Harry hoped that her stubbornness didn't prove her undoing. As she had been unable to stop him, so now was he unable to stop her. Turnabout was fair play, and all.</p>
<p>"I think you'll find that they're quite clear if you just read them carefully—"</p>
<p>"But, there's nothing in there about <em>using</em> defensive magic!" Hermione interrupted, again. Umbridge tittered, a thoroughly unsuiting little laugh that made Harry shudder in revulsion.</p>
<p>"'Using defensive spells'?" Umbridge repeated. "Do you expect to be attacked in my class, Ms. Granger?" she asked, in her high-pitched, excessively girly, voice.</p>
<p>Harry sort of did. "Well, considering our last professor was—"</p>
<p>Hermione stomped hard on his foot. Ron sent him a level, unimpressed look. It was hypocritical of both of them. As if <em>he</em> were the only one to dig himself into a figurative hole by his actions.</p>
<p>"Hang on! We're not going to be <em>practising</em> magic at all?" demanded Dean, voice thick with incredulity.</p>
<p>"There is no reason to—"</p>
<p>"But, isn't there a practical part to our O.W.L.s?" asked Parvati, a mild tinge of hysteria creeping into her voice. You could scarce blame her, when every professor worth his salt thus far had started the first class by reminding them on how very important the O.W.L.s were.</p>
<p>"As long as you have studied the theory sufficiently well, I see no reason why you should not be able to replicate the spells in a carefully controlled, ministry-approved situation, as the O.W.L. exams a—"</p>
<p>"If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a 'carefully controlled, ministry-approved situation', now will it?" asked Seamus. Umbridge gave another of those painful giggles, but a frown had appeared between her eyebrows, and her lips were quirked downwards into a burgeoning frown.</p>
<p>"Now, who do you think would want to harm little children, such as yourselves?" she asked, with deliberate levity that had Harry clenching his fists, and grinding his teeth. "Who" indeed! The class turned to him, as if for guidance. These were his yearmates—the gryffindors who hadn't forsaken him. He couldn't stay silent.</p>
<p>"How about '<em>You-Know-Who</em>'?" he demanded, rising to his feet. "Is that a good enough answer for you?"</p>
<p>"You-Know-Who is <em>dead</em>, Mr. Potter, and is therefore incapable of harming—"</p>
<p>"He's <em>not</em> dead," Harry insisted, with a strange sort of calm flooding him. "I don't know how even <em>you</em> could be so blind as to believe that. I fought him last June. I barely survived."</p>
<p><em>I died</em>.</p>
<p>"Mr. Potter, you have already lost ten points. Do not make things worse for yourself! You-Know-Who is dead!" she shouted, over him. "Class, you have been told some rather alarming lies. You have been told that a certain Dark Lord has returned from the dead—"</p>
<p>"He wasn't dead, but yes, in essence!"</p>
<p>"Silence! Detention, Mr. Potter!" Her eyes gleamed. Somehow, even this did not make him regret his words. "Now, you have been told that a certain Dark Lord has returned from the dead. I repeat: this is a lie. If anyone has been telling you lies of Dark Lords returning from the dead, I urge you to tell me. I am your friend. I have no desire for you to—"</p>
<p>"And what of Cedric Diggory? Is he an attention-seeking liar, too?" asked Harry, his voice cold as ice, and very, very quiet. Despite that, everyone in the room heard him with striking clarity. Most of them had never seen Harry angry before, and they hastily looked away at even a glimpse. Neville decided that Harry was one of the most terrifying people he had ever met.</p>
<p>"He was overstimulated during the Third Task, and mistook what he—"</p>
<p>"Spreading nasty, defamatory lies about the winners of the Tournament, now, are we? Are you jealous that you missed your chance at glory? But, the Goblet of Fire chooses only those of worth—"</p>
<p>"Out, now! I will not tolerate such disrespect in my classroom!" she cried, walking over to her desk, and writing out a note on (pink) parchment with quick, sharp, slices of her quill. "You will take this note to Professor McGonagall, and leave my class."</p>
<p>Harry yanked the parchment from her hands, and stormed out. Ron was not long in following.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Devil and the Details</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry's first detention with Umbridge--before, during, and after.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Harry, you should not have—"</p>
<p>"Oh, don't give me that, Ron!" he snapped, rounding on his brother. "Don't you realise what she's playing at? If she has her way, no one will be prepared for Riddle's return. It'll be mass slaughter, just like—"</p>
<p>"Hogwarts is still a sanctuary. He has yet to reach here. As long as Dumbledore guards this school—"</p>
<p>"He will not live forever. There are no more constants, Ron, and I refuse to stand by and see an entire generation damned because <em>I</em> lacked the courage to act!"</p>
<p>He was already stalking off in the direction of McGonagall's office, but Ron had no trouble at all keeping up with him, of course. "Riddle is not as powerful a foe as…" he faltered, knowing that saying this name was not a good idea, particularly at the moment.</p>
<p>"As He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" asked Harry, the barest traces of humour creeping into his voice. Ron nodded, glancing back and forth as they walked down the halls, as if anticipating an attack at any moment. Harry refused to let the experience remind him of anything.</p>
<p>"That would be a most confusing means of referring to him."</p>
<p>"Wizards have a point. Names have power. And I am…weak." Harry stopped in the middle of the hall, to lean against the wall, trying to rein in his emotions. <em>Why</em> had he snapped that badly? He thought he had much more self-control than that. Was he so wrong about his own limitations?</p>
<p>"You are not weak, Brother," Ron said, standing beside him. "Sirius, Remus, Stephen, and Hermione all agree with me on that matter. You have suffered greatly, and I was not there—"</p>
<p>"Don't even start that on me, Thor," Harry hissed, turning away from him and resuming his march down the hall. He was full of restless energy, still, reminding him of those inexplicably powerful dreams of darkened corridors and black doors. He'd been there before. He knew he had.</p>
<p>They arrived at McGonagall's, but her door was locked. Peeves intercepted them, and his jeers were not the best balm for Harry's still raging temper.</p>
<p>Luckily for Peeves, McGonagall arrived before Harry could decide that he really wanted to know whether or not he could find a way to harm ghosts.</p>
<p>"Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley. May I ask what you are doing outside my office?"</p>
<p>Harry frowned. What <em>was</em> Ron doing here? Except (he sighed) watching over Harry, again.</p>
<p>"I have a note from Professor Umbridge, ma'am," he said. You would have had to have been there to know that he'd just been shouting. His voice was very calm, but not the deadly calm, threatening quiet he'd used a few minutes ago on Umbridge.</p>
<p>McGonagall raised an eyebrow, but unlocked her door with a sharp rap of her wand, in a non-verbal spell. She glanced at Ron, and shook her head. "And you, Mr. Weasley?"</p>
<p>Ron fidgeted, and looked at the floor. McGonagall seemed to understand, shaking her head, as she allowed him to enter, as well.</p>
<p>"I should ask you to leave, Mr. Weasley," she said. Ron just looked at her, and said nothing. Before she could change her mind, Harry thrust the note into her hands, and then sat down before her desk, utterly still, as he waited for her to pronounce judgement. There was a moment's pause, in which Ron grew progressively more restless, and Professor McGonagall read the note. At last, she leant back in her chair, wiping at her eyes, and stared across her desk at Harry, with something approaching a glare.</p>
<p>"According to this note, you interrupted her class. Is it true that you questioned her teaching methods, and insulted her personally?" asked McGonagall, steepling her fingers.</p>
<p>He wasn't sure he understood her reaction, but neither truth nor lies got you very far with McGonagall. "Yes, Ma'am," he said, in his humblest voice. He could almost <em>feel</em> Ron struggling not to shoot him an incredulous look.</p>
<p>"And, did you further insist that You-Know-Who had returned, after threat of further punishment if you continued to interrupt?"</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, gaze falling all the way to the floor.</p>
<p>"I see. Have a biscuit, Potter," said McGonagall. He blinked, gaze shooting up to meet her, almost amused, expression. She was holding out a variety tin filled with an assortment of cookies. He knew nothing of wizarding ones, and took one at random.</p>
<p>"Thank you, Professor."</p>
<p>"You too, Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall, moving the tin to the side for Ron. "Heavens knows that I don't see you suffering that outrageous woman in silence."</p>
<p>"He was much better behaved than I, truth be told," Harry insisted, handing Ron his cookie. Ron stared at it as if he weren't sure whether it were animal, vegetable, or mineral. Did you eat it, wear it, or write with it?</p>
<p>McGonagall's eyebrows rose in response. "You are usually the more…passive of the two. I assumed that Mr. Weasley had, likewise, lost his temper, and yelled some rather unflattering things at Professor Umbridge—"</p>
<p>What? When had he done that?</p>
<p>"This note states that you have detention every night, for the next week. I would—"</p>
<p>"The entirety of the coming week?" repeated Harry. "Angelina will <em>kill</em> me. She was going on about wanting to do tryouts on Friday, with the entire team there, to see how newcomers fit in—"</p>
<p>"You will simply have to miss it, I'm afraid. I have no power to overrule Dolores Umbridge. Perhaps you heard her speech last night?"</p>
<p>He paused, biting his lip in a frown. "The Ministry is taking an active hand in the education of Hogwarts students… they're trying to strip Hogwarts, and Dumbledore, of any semblance of power—strict regulations, the lot. They're trying to make us helpless."</p>
<p>Ron looked alarmed. Hermione's explanation was not as much cause for concern as the one Harry had just given.</p>
<p>"In essence, yes," said McGonagall. "Fudge fears Dumbledore…thinks he's raising an army. Umbridge, Fudge's emissary, is here to forestall that. The fool. But, you must understand that this means that you must watch what you say and do around your new professor very carefully. You mustn't lose your temper with her—"</p>
<p>"It wasn't so much that I lost my temper, as that—well, they needed to be warned. Any lie, repeated often enough, is indistinguishable from the truth. I heard that, somewhere. If you're not careful, the <em>Ministry</em> will succeed in indoctrinating even the faithful. What if I hadn't stood up? They needed to know that I believed the truth of my experience enough to suffer for it."</p>
<p>He did not yet know, of course, how literal was the truth of this statement.</p>
<p>"Then you will suffer for it by missing the quidditch tryouts," McGonagall said, her voice stern, but not unkind. He bowed his head, and searched for something to say.</p>
<p>And, it would be the first time in this lifetime that he broke a promise. This year already did not bode well.</p>
<hr/>
<p>He didn't care if this was N.E.W.T. year for her, Angelina needed to get her priorities straightened out. He was not in the habit of breaking promises lightly, and he expected others to extend him the same courtesy. Tricksters were tricksters, but if you always lied, and never kept your word, no one in their right mind would ever turn to you for assistance. He liked to think that he had a good track record of keeping the letter and/or spirit of his promises. That he'd been forced to break this one galled him.</p>
<p>Now that they were back at Hogwarts, Stephen would return to showing up every Thursday, which ended up meaning the day before Quidditch tryouts, which meant that he'd be of little use in finding a loophole for Harry, if one existed that somehow let him hold up his end of the deal, without Umbridge hearing about it. He doubted that such were possible. Stephen would later inform him that he could only take himself time-traveling, no passengers, which crossed that off the list. Asking someone else to suffer in his stead was unconscionable (especially with that little voice reminding him that he was treading the path to redemption, which was not expected to be easy and light).</p>
<p>And that was before he'd had one of Umbridge's detentions. He abandoned any attempt to find a way around shortly after his arrival, when he realised what they were: torture, hidden under the thin veneer of respectability afforded by the name of "detention". Detentions were an enshrined form of punishment in schools, one above question. Snape doled out detentions the way some professors would candy, but there were always the overzealous. Umbridge struck him as an even greater extreme—that was, before he sat down to his first detention.</p>
<p>Two hours after dinner, he bade farewell to Ron and Hermione, with a brief explanation of his destination, and struck off along the familiar route to the Defence Professor's Office, which path he'd trod many times before, for…well, not happier reasons, per se, but with a purpose in mind, the trial to come a means to an end. But, what had he done in the here and now warranting such punishment?</p>
<p>He hadn't enjoyed subjecting himself to even a fake-boggart, over and over, and he couldn't deny that it had taken its toll on him, but that suffering had served to inoculate him, at least to the maximum extent possible, to a greater threat. This served no purpose but to test his mettle, his fortitude, perhaps even his virtue. He could not help thinking (of the experience) that perhaps he, as his brother before him, were being remade, reforged in fire, by dint of his suffering. It became a matter of pride, a challenge, but more than either of those, of his very worth, to see whether or not he could endure. As if this were the stick by which he measured whether or not he had come far enough along that long, harsh road, to deserve redemption.</p>
<p>And, that was only one of the reasons that he suffered in silence.</p>
<p>He crept through the hall, pausing to send a reproachful glare to Mrs. Norris, and to nod his greeting to every ghost he passed, as if he were merely out for a stroll. He ignored the few slytherins he encountered in the halls, and wandered, as if by accident, to the familiar defence professor office. It was only his respect for the position itself that led him to show the "common" niceties, such as knocking rather than throwing wide the door, as he was sorely tempted to do. He'd much rather violate Professor Umbridge's sense of security and safety than respect it. He had no desire for her to relax, safe and sound, here in this hideous little lair that she'd laid out for herself—and it <em>was</em> hideous.</p>
<p>As with the woman herself, it was decked out all in pink, with pink lace doilies, and of course the stationary and the woman herself behind the desk, and ranging the wall were a hundred collectors plates of kittens with neat little bows and wide eyes. The stark contrast was jarring. Did cats perhaps catch and eat toads? He thought that they might, given the opportunity. Certainly, it was tempting to see what Crookshanks made of this woman, whether she registered as prey.</p>
<p>She stayed there, sitting behind her (thankfully not pink) work desk, and waved a hand, ordering him to take a seat…wherever.</p>
<p>The student desks were also mercifully devoid of the colour. Harry had a fleeting thought—pink, the colour of blood on snow—all too suited for Umbridge, all too suited for what was to come. As the arm of the law, and a sort of dark ambassador, she was a living symbol of the idea of the maintenance of order through fear. And, once he'd had the thought—pink as blood—it could not be retracted, he would forever after connect her and her pink with shed blood. Indeed, he thought he would have, even were her punishment other than what it was.</p>
<p>He set down his worn school satchel beside his seat.</p>
<p>"Today, you will be writing lines," she said, although there was no need for such specificity. "Lines" were her favourite punishment. He would write them not only tonight, but tomorrow night, and the night after that, and in every detention with her thereafter. He, thinking of McGonagall's words, and the need to curry favour, reached for the satchel at his side, but Umbridge gave a little laugh (she was a true sadist, laughing in anticipation of suffering not yet realised).</p>
<p>"You'll be using a rather special quill of mine. I find it helps the message to <em>sink in</em>," she said, with her horrid, tittering laugh. Alarm bells rang at the queer emphasis she put on those last two words. "Sink in"? In what way? But, he would learn soon enough, and he, who had been through so much, who had suffered so much, who thought himself well-acquainted with a great variety of forms of suffering and torment, was nevertheless unprepared for this one.</p>
<p><em>Sink in</em>, she had said, the words well-chosen. He pulled out his parchment (which was not provided) and a bottle of ink, and then stood to retrieve the quill.</p>
<p>"Put that back," she said, with a distasteful glance at the ministry-regulation black ink he'd used for all his years at Hogwarts, which never before had been cause for complaint. His eyes narrowed, as he tried to figure out <em>why</em>. "You won't be needing any ink."</p>
<p>And, she gave a horrible, broad, flabby smile.</p>
<p>He eyed her warily, but put away the ink, accepting the black quill, thinking of the innocuous muggle instrument that came with its own ink, (although he could see no sign of such,here), and staring at her with his best expression of expectant deference, enthralled tilt of the head and all.</p>
<p>"As you are here because of your insubordination, disrespecting my authority and person, I would very much like to have you write something to the effect of how you must respect your elders. However, there is a far more pertinent problem here, isn't there?" she giggled. "We can't have you spreading nasty, attention-seeking rumours, now can we? That won't do at all. You'll terrify all your little friends, and that won't do. I should like you to write '<em>I must not tell lies</em>', instead," she said, and it was just as well that he hadn't taken her earlier words as the script.</p>
<p>Still. "I must not tell lies"? Now, things were getting personal. After three years spent in denial, he was wary of even such a superficial rejection of his identity. It all fell together into a horrible, convoluted, tortuous mess.</p>
<p>It fell together more than he initially thought. It wasn't only that he, the God of Lies, was obliged to write that <em>lying</em> was what he must not do. It wasn't merely that he was subjected to, subordinated to, the will of what he swift realised was a monster in human skin (and clothing). It was not enough that the entire Wizarding World had turned against him, again, bar the usual suspects, with a few additions (pebbles left on the shore as the tide rolled out). It was not enough that Riddle had been resurrected, and the Ministry was slandering Harry.</p>
<p>No, they had to drag in all the other, older dangers into the mix, as well. Once again, he needed Ron, and Ron was not there. Once again, Ron was only absent due to his ignorance of the true state of affairs, he would have chosen to stand by Harry's side, family prized far more highly than reputation, than safety, than respect, than any worldly good. He did not know. Had he known, he would have come.</p>
<p>And, he must never know. He was not known for patience or restraint. What would he do? Murder Dolores Umbridge, and be thrown into Azkaban fastness? Escape his just deserts in a mortal court, and spend the rest of his life on the run? Harry would bear this alone.</p>
<p>But, those thoughts felt far too familiar.</p>
<p>He picked up the quill, wrote his first line, and his hand spasmed involuntarily. He glanced down at the brief flash of raw redness on the back of it, with what was almost mere curiosity. It was mild, for the moment. Easy to ignore, but he knew that Mother was watching, already.</p>
<p>"Is something the matter, Mr. Potter?" asked Umbridge, looking less like the cat who caught the canary, and more like the toad when the fly at last is within reach of his tongue.</p>
<p>"You haven't told me how many times to write those words," he said, with exaggerated politeness.</p>
<p>The smile widened, because she was a sadistic bitch. "Oh, as many times as it takes for it to <em>sink in</em>."</p>
<p>He had a horrible, sneaking suspicion that he knew what this meant. But, all he did was to give a sharp nod, and to fix his gaze upon the paper, lest he give her the satisfaction of a reaction. He wrote the words a second time, and he noticed that almost imperceptible increase in the severity of the pain, because he was watching out for it.</p>
<p>He suspected that, somewhere within her cottage in the heart of his soul, Mother balked at his treatment, powerless to prevent it. And, if what Umbridge said meant what he thought it did, her protection would not avail him, regardless. If Mother were to heal his wounds as they accrued, that meant only that it would take <em>longer</em> for the mirror-nib to carve deep enough into his flesh for Umbridge's satisfaction. All his usual defences worked against him, here, and his eyes narrowed, to think of this, his mother's wasted efforts, as Riddle had stolen the best part of her blood-sacrifice.</p>
<p>But, he could handle physical pain. He could work through pain. He knew this, as intimately as he knew himself. It was an incontrovertible fact, the inevitable conclusion once he'd torn the veil from before his own eyes.</p>
<p><em>Does the Wizarding World condone </em><em><strong>torture</strong></em><em>, then?</em> he was forced to wonder, as the black quill cut ever deeper into his flesh. <em>Through his flesh</em>, bypassing the protective layer of his epidermis, to carve at once towards the surface, and deeper down, into muscle, towards bone.</p>
<p><em>Etch these words upon my bones, and the words on your grave are written in your </em><em><strong>own</strong></em><em> blood</em>, he thought, but he made no further move to speak with her after that exchange. He was too busy, sinking deep into himself, into older memories, which ironed themselves out, lying flat, unfurled before him, unrolled like the proverbial red carpet. He saw them again, as if for the first time. He remembered how it had begun. He remembered dying, for the first time.</p>
<p>No one could survive such a harsh, jarring impact, with that desolate, rocky surface, the barren wasteland that was <em>Thanos's</em> homeworld, all that remained of it, once Thanos had done with it.</p>
<p>He'd <em>died</em>, but, just as had happened these past four years at Hogwarts, before his soul could properly flee, could <em>move on</em>, entering the cycle of rebirth, it had been dragged back. He didn't know how long it took—a day? A week? A month? If he'd only made it out of that wasteland, he would have been safe in the Before.</p>
<p>He did not have the soul of a human being, and the normal rules did not apply to him. When at last he'd died, and been free to continue on, he'd managed to continue <em>back</em>, instead, his soul drawn to the only familiar soul that had died before him, had moved on not long before he had, in a day that stretched into decades through the inconsistency of time.</p>
<p>But, that had been the second time. He was stuck in the time between. The hidden months (years?) continued to elude him, sliding out of sight, as he had the reputation for doing, himself. But now, for the first time since he'd come to terms with the "who" and "how" of his identity, memories of suffering reared their heads. They had never been far distant. That had been an illusion— one of his best, and a necessary one. To have it stripped away left him defenceless, in the worst way.</p>
<p>He sought for defences, but they were few and far between. He'd known all along that pain was Thanos's way into his mind. But, this pain was hardly worth thinking about. It was only the familiarity of the experience, a foreign (British, <em>human</em>) tang that made the whole experience novel again. This time last year, he would have handed over to that last barrier between "him" and the corrupted corner of his mind. That corner that he'd first called "Loki", and then, his intuition.</p>
<p>But, that bulwark, the final barricade, no longer existed. Perhaps, he'd narrowly avoided a strange case of a late-onset Multiple Personality Disorder, and he should be grateful. But, it was hard to feel anything of the sort, as his mind strained, despite his best efforts, reaching for the very worst, thick cracks like the veins of marble spreading throughout.</p>
<p>He needed Ron. But, Ron wasn't here. He hadn't been there the last time, either.</p>
<p>
  <em>I refuse to be the ingrate prince, the prodigal son. I refuse to be the villain. I will hold out. I will make Father proud. I will make </em>
  <em>
    <strong>Ron</strong>
  </em>
  <em> proud.</em>
</p>
<p>And then, summoned by his thoughts, rising up beneath that, the familiar refrain: <em>Show no weakness</em>.</p>
<p>And, he began to realise the value of his childhood training, after all. For this was a war, and one that he could not afford to lose. <em>Any sentiment of similarity between </em><em><strong>now</strong></em><em> and then is born of fear and preoccupation. Give it no voice. The only thing these two situations have in common is </em><em><strong>torture</strong></em><em>. And, you have much experience with that.</em></p>
<p>He managed to guide himself into a safe path, staying out of his mental crevices and cracks, resolving to repair those. He'd found a place of safety, one where the past couldn't reach him. Just as long as Umbridge did not change her method of punishment.</p>
<p>"Set your quill down," Umbridge said, and he blinked, as if coming out of a stupor. Blood trickled down the back of his hand from a now-open wound, and he blinked at it, as if it were newly-received. He hadn't noticed it form.</p>
<p>He set the quill down, with a sort of apathy, despite how he now became aware that his hand throbbed and stung. He glanced over at Umbridge, cocking his head, a question in his expression that needed no interpretation.</p>
<p>"Show me the back of your hand," she said, and he stood, silent, and walked over to her desk, holding out his hand. She took it, and a sharp pain flared across his scar. Coincidence, or a warning? But then, it <em>had</em> been hyperactive, over the summer. Perhaps, it was nothing. Had he believed that Dumbledore still had his ear, he might have asked. As it was, he resolved to ask Sirius, instead.</p>
<p>She misinterpreted the reason for his reaction, and he frowned, eyes narrowing, which just made that alarming grin widen. "Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she asked, with a brutal, cold smile.</p>
<p>Something flared in response, colder, fiercer, almost more primordial, and with it, the certainty that Umbridge must someday be taken to account for her sins. How was it that Christianity painted <em>Loki</em> as some sort of demon, when such a human woman as this could exist in the Christian world, secure in her piety, certain of her rectitude, she exacted torture upon children, and thought herself in the right.</p>
<p><em>This</em> was the true demon. If there were, indeed, such things as demons, this was the shape they took. His eyes narrowed a fraction further.</p>
<p>"You may go, Mr. Potter. That is enough for tonight."</p>
<p>He did not ask whether he need return on the next night. He knew the answer. He did not need to hear it spoken.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Fun and Torture</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry talks to Sirius about his detentions, and Thor realises that the detentions are more than what they seem, and confronts Harry.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Maybe this helps with your boredom a bit?<br/>Stay safe.<br/>If you haven't already voted in the 2020 U.S. election, it's too late to now, okay?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were times when a conversation could be postponed, and then there were times when it couldn't be put off. Harry knew that asking Sirius about his reaction to Umbridge touching even just his hand was one of those things that couldn't be postponed. It was late, as he realised, staggering back in the direction of the common room. It was after curfew, and any delay in going to bed was liable to get him into trouble. Despite that, he casually tried the handle of every door he passed, until he came across a handle that turned, allowing him to enter.</p><p>He pulled the mirror out of his pocket, where it lay wrapt still in protective newspaper, and, almost certainly, covered in spells against breakage. He kept it on him at all times, as Sirius had said that he would, himself.</p><p>"Sirius Black," he whispered to the mirror, despite being alone in the classroom. He waited a moment, before saying the same thing, louder, now, in a clearer voice, thinking of floo powder and disastrous unplanned trips down Knockturn Alley. He waited a few moments, and was about to try again when Sirius's face appeared in the mirror. He looked wan and haggard, but he smiled when he saw Harry, which made him look less of a reanimated corpse.</p><p>"Harry? What do you need, kiddo?" he asked, stifling a yawn.</p><p>Harry told him about detention with Umbridge, leaving out quite a few details, such as the torture—he only said that she had him writing lines—no need to burden Sirius, who looked as if he needed a good night's rest, and a week of relaxation. Sirius and Ron would doubtless chew him out if they ever discovered that Umbridge's detentions were a cover for torture But, of course, the flagstones of the road to redemption were paved with thorns and spikes.</p><p>All he told Sirius was that he had detention with Umbridge, that she had him writing lines, and that, when she'd <em>happened</em> to touch his arm as he was showing her the night's labours, his scar had flared, and she'd seemed to notice it.</p><p>Harry could almost see the thoughts rolling across the scape of Sirius's mind, billowing like fog, as he considered the tale. There were no holes in Harry's explanation. He was considering Harry's question.</p><p>"Umbridge was, to my knowledge, never a supporter of Voldemort. She's passed some nasty legislation against 'dangerous half-breeds', and she has enough hatred of muggleborns, but, as I believe I said of the late Mr. Crouch, there are many people with…unsavoury opinions, who weren't supporters of Voldemort.</p><p>"Here's the best theory my tired brain can come up with: between what you have told me, and what Dumbledore has (which, to be fair, there's some overlap there), your scar symbolises your connection to Voldemort, in that it contains a fragment of your soul. <em>However</em>, it was caused, albeit indirectly, by Lily's sacrifice, and, if <em>you're</em> right, and you're far more of an expert on magic than Dumbledore, thank you very much, it may also be the thing that restored your soul to your body.</p><p>"When you fought Quirrell at the end of first year, it hurt because of the juxtaposition of the evil of Voldemort's corrupted soul and the purity of your mother's love and protection. right? Suppose that this was merely another instance of the same thing. You have that burning reaction caused by the interplay of good-versus-evil, exacerbated in your case, but not hers, because of recent events—the resurrection of Voldemort, for one—which have made you more…receptive to such influences. Perhaps, she had a brief flare of pain, as well, far less powerful than yours. Of course, there's also the shorter, simpler explanation that, as there now exists a sort of connection between your soul, and Voldemort's, that you might be picking up on his emotions. But, that wouldn't be the case, because you've trained yourself in occlumency."</p><p>Harry paused, processing this long speech as it was spoken, and tilted his head at the end. "I knew I was forgetting <em>something</em>," he said. "But, I assumed that that was Ron's Foe-Glass, which I didn't bother setting up until last night. Unsurprisingly, the two figures in the glass are Riddle and Umbridge. I expected nothing less from either of them. Occlumency, however…that slipped my mind. I have yet to set up a practice schedule for all important things, as of yet. I must find time to practice it."</p><p>"You do that, Harry. You need it. It might help to ward off…well, You-<em>Know</em>-Who."</p><p>Harry took a moment to appreciate the gravity of the situation, which Sirius seemed well aware of. How dire a threat must someone pose for even someone like Sirius to call them "You-Know-Who"? Of course, that was just as courtesy to Harry…however, Harry was sure that there'd be less courtesy to his actions if ever Sirius and Thanos cross paths.</p><p>"So, it's either a coincidence, or Mother's love protecting me from a different source of evil. That's reassuring. How goes the war effort?"</p><p>Sirius frowned. "Sturgis Podmore has missed a few meetings. Moody is growing concerned that something may have happened to him. If someone has compromised an Order member, as last year—"</p><p>Harry stared down at a desk, setting the mirror down upon it. "Yes, that would be bad," he said, nodding. He was careful to ensure that at no point during their conversation did the back of his right hand come into view. It fairly flamed with pain. Not that you could tell by his expression. <em>Show no weakness</em>, no matter what he'd been told. This was <em>war</em>, one with two different theatres.</p><p>He had never met Sturgis Podmore, but he remembered his suspicions. It was good to know that Moody was now suspecting him, too.</p><p>Should it be as much of a weight off his mind as it was? He could only do so much. He, Ron, Hermione, and Stephen needed to keep up their training—thrice important with Riddle returned, and he needed to throw occlumency practice back into the mix. That meant intruding into Dumbledore's office. At least Dumbledore had approved him carrying the Sword of Gryffindor everywhere, having told him, before they ceased to be on speaking terms, that he must not bring it to class. Harry's compromise was to bring it to class anyway, but under an illusion, that none of his professors might know. He kept it, the mirror, and the invisibility cloak on his person at all times.</p><p>He didn't know when he'd even have <em>time</em> to practice occlumency, with these detentions lasting for as long as they did. He didn't even know when he'd have time to practise quidditch.</p><p>"You haven't been gone for very long, no matter how it may seem," said Sirius, into Harry's brooding silence. "There's little to update you on. If you have nothing else to say—"</p><p>"Go back to bed, Sirius," Harry said, with a smile that had actual affection in it. "I merely wished to consult with you on that matter."</p><p>"Good night, then, Harry. Take care of yourself, hear?"</p><p>Harry smiled, touched again by how much Sirius cared.</p><p>"I will. And as I said before we left, that goes thrice for you. Good night."</p><p>Sirius's image winked out, and Harry heaved a sigh, and lifted his right hand to examine the dried blood on the back. That would never do. He cleaned it off with the water conjuring spell, and then paused to consider what to do next. What was the most inconspicuous thing?</p><p>He leant back against the wall, and then pointed to a table leg. "<em>Ferula</em>," he whispered, and bandages wrapt themselves around it. "<em>Scourgify</em>," he said, shaking his head, and thinking of Tonks's disastrous attempts to use housekeeping spells.</p><p>He unrolled the stiff bandages, cutting a swathe off with the wand, and wrapping it over the inflamed flesh of his hand, and then added an illusory cover over it for good measure, before unrolling the rest of the bandages, and sticking them into his pocket. If tonight were any indication, he'd need plenty more in the nights to come.</p><p>Ron and Hermione had stayed up to wait for him, as had Ginny. Ron looked relieved, as if he'd expected for Umbridge to send him into the Forbidden Forest for detention, as McGonagall had first year. Which, now he thought of it, he needed to talk to the centaurs. He'd do that later.</p><p>"I'm fine," he said, with a tired smile. "She had me write lines."</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. Then her gaze softened. "Well, as long as it was only lines."</p><p>Harry had to try hard not to gulp. "Just" lines? But, he was the first to have detention with Umbridge, and, for all he knew, she'd reserved her torture just for him. Maybe he'd manage to keep it a secret…. Hmm…. As if he'd be <em>that</em> lucky.</p><p>"It was, however, quite a few lines," he made sure to add. "It seemed to take quite a long time. I wonder what she'll try tomorrow? But, you needn't have waited for me. Go, get some sleep," he told the two of them, shooing them off with an absent wave of his hand, as if nothing were wrong. He was sure the wound would have sealed by the next morning. He'd take off the bandages, then.</p><p>One day of detention done, six left to go. He could do this!</p><hr/><p>Angelina had told him to "tell Umbridge that You-Know-Who was a figment of his imagination, if he had to", as long as he made it to quidditch tryouts. Personally, he thought he'd stand a better chance of making the tryouts if he said nothing to her at all. He was not fool enough to give her leverage over him, the satisfaction, and he knew that she would not yield. Although he told Angelina that he'd asked Umbridge for an exemption, he never bothered to.</p><p>She couldn't possibly be crazy enough to think that he <em>wanted</em> to sit here with Umbridge, night after night, could she? She didn't know about the true nature of the detentions, but there was no avoiding the fact that Umbridge was in charge of them. Even the slytherins, for all their attempts to curry favour with her, did not <em>genuinely</em> like her—she was a means to an end, for them. Harry might understand why they did this, but it in no way made the idea more appealing for him. Regardless, he was one of the two foes she had been sent to Hogwarts to vanquish, and would not be interested in any attempts from his corner to make amends or to build bridges.</p><p>Angelina might be in gryffindor, but she was no fool. It was just the stress of the coming season that was causing her to overreact.</p><p>Meanwhile, detentions continued as they had on the first night. Each night, the quill made its progress towards both air and bone, boring deeper and deeper into his hand. He knew he'd end up with a whole new noticeable scar when all was said and done. Mother would want to heal these, but he knew that that would do nothing but draw Umbridge's attention and ire. Perhaps, if there ever came a day when she left the school, and he had no need to consider the possibility that she might assign him detention, because these clearly hadn't "sunk in" enough….</p><p>That hypothetical was so far distant, however, that it was not worth thinking about. Instead, he bore through it as best he could, hiding all traces of his injury for as long as he could. Most unfortunately for him, the deeper the damage his hand sustained, the harder it became to hide. He could suppress some of his winces and flinching, but blood was harder to hide, and he was growing <em>tired</em> from the toll it had taken on his sleep. No rest, and a constant drain on his lifeforce (because blood was connected to lifeforce, and she was shedding his blood in these detentions; because he was using magic to hide that he was injured; because he refused to forego the all-important, if taxing task of increasing his magical reserves, for there was an impending war) took their toll on him. Anyone would grow sloppy in such circumstances, even those without memories of tortures past to bog them down and weigh heavy on their shoulders.</p><p>In short, Ron and Hermione found out about the torture before the detentions were over with. Perhaps, it was the way that his hand began to shake with the strain, the sudden weakness making it difficult to hold the quill. Perhaps, it was the thick layer of bandages that were now insufficient to keep his hand from bleeding through. Perhaps, he was just being <em>sloppy</em>, or how else would Ron be able to catch him on his way back from detention, before he'd had a chance to hide the evidence?</p><p>"Umbridge kept you in detention longer than she ordinarily does," he noted, as Harry wove his way through the halls, too tired for any excuse not prepared well in advance to help him.</p><p>Harry stumbled, and then straightened up. <em>Show no weakness</em>, he thought, as if disregarding Stephen's words, and Sirius's. He certainly didn't <em>feel</em> strong enough to qualify for exemption from ridicule. Malfoy routinely picked fights, but he was a fool. Malfoy's father had a barbed tongue, and a keener intellect, but he did not shy away from the challenge, either.</p><p>"There was no need to seek me out, Ron," Harry said, unable to keep a trace of fatigue from his voice. It was Thursday, tomorrow was quidditch tryouts, and he'd missed whatever Stephen had to say because of his detention. Which, perhaps….</p><p>"Did Stephen tell you to look for me?" he asked, much more alert, now. He leant against the wall of the corridor, and hoped that Peeves did not come through. Peeves, despite being a superb mischief-maker, had no respect for Harry. It was ridiculous, and quite unjust. What could you do, except hope that he didn't make a scene, calling Filch and Mrs. Norris over?</p><p>"I was…concerned, when you did not arrive when expected," Ron corrected him. "I decided to look for you."</p><p>On his own, he meant. Harry sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He had the presence of mind to ensure that that was the uninjured, left, hand, rather than his right, which was, by now, dripping blood. He must have taken a great deal longer than usual, indeed, because they were still not as far from Umbridge's Office as he would have liked.</p><p>He casually stuffed his hand into his pocket, and shrugged. "I suppose she simply enjoys my presence. It isn't as if we talk about anything. She must have lost track of time."</p><p>He tried to smile, but could barely manage a grimace. His hand throbbed. It distracted him more than it should have. How was he going to get away to wrap his hand? He couldn't do it inconspicuously, with his hand in his pocket. He couldn't remove his hand from his pocket, lest he draw Ron's attention, what with how he could feel blood staining his robes. And, he couldn't leave his hand in his pocket either, both because that was suspicious, as he didn't usually walk around with either of his hands stuck in his pockets, and because of the spreading, aforementioned stain. What to do?</p><p>It was also suspicious to be standing around in the corridor. He shoved his hand deeper into his pocket, and the other hand went into his left-hand pocket, and he set off, as if unbothered, for Gryffindor Tower.</p><p>"Did something happen, Harry?" Ron pressed. Harry didn't turn to face him. But, that just made Ron grab his shoulder to spin him around. He winced, slightly, at the way this pressed the fabric into the wound. It flared into greater heat, and he resisted the urge to scowl.</p><p>"Ron, we <em>are</em> out after curfew," Harry reminded him, hoping that he hadn't noticed.</p><p>When was he ever that lucky? "Are you injured, Harry?" Ron asked, now, which was unfair in a way completely typical for Harry's life. It figured that, having grown up together as they had, Ron would know him well enough to know that he only <em>showed</em> he was in pain when he was hurt fairly bad. His fatigue had lowered his pain threshold, as if the universe had set together a number of highly implausible variables into concomitance.</p><p>"No," he said, with a sigh. "I'm <em>tired</em>, but I'm fine," he said.</p><p>Ah. That was probably a bad choice of words. <em>Everyone</em> seemed to suspect him when he said that particular phrase.</p><p>"That is what you say when you are gravely injured," Ron began, and Harry realised that this would only get worse the longer he delayed. Ron was being the mother hen, again. Harry was tired, and at the end of his tether, after having been tortured for the last, what, four hours? A very long time.</p><p>(Not as long as certain <em>other</em> torture sessions, but still.)</p><p>"If I tell you what is wrong, will you let us go back to the Common Room in peace? I <em>am</em> tired, Ron, and I have been given little opportunity to rest. I'm sure you expected better lies from me, but—"</p><p><em>I must not tell lies</em>. He clenched his hands into fists, and winced again. It felt as if his hand were spreading with cracks like the veins in marble, as his mind had, not long ago. He shook his head, trying to drive away such thoughts.</p><p>"I need <em>rest</em>, Ron," he said, ignoring Ron's renewed gravity. "Standing here, talking, is not helping me."</p><p>Ron knew better than to make him any promises, unfortunately. Instead, he reached for Harry's sleeve, and pulled Harry's hand out of his pocket by tugging on the fabric.</p><p>"Don't overreact," Harry said, too late.</p><p>Ron was very good at towering fury—he always had been. It made you understand the phrase "stormy expression".</p><p>"<em>Silencio</em>!" Harry cried, forced to use his weaker hand (and without his wand, either) to cast the spell, which made it rather weaker than it should have been. The sudden movement, of course, dislodged his school satchel. He sighed, and yanked his other arm out of Ron's grasp, shoving the strap back up.</p><p>"Can you be quiet, or do we need to speak of this in the Room of Requirement?" Harry demanded. It was irrelevant to him that Ron, silenced, couldn't respond.</p><p>After a moment's thought, Harry withdrew the invisibility cloak from his left-hand pocket. He let his shoulders slump, showing his exhaustion, before turning to Ron.</p><p>"I see that I will have no peace until I have given you answers, no matter that this exhaustion might well kill me. I need the energy to train for the coming war—increase my magical reserves, whilst keeping up with schoolwork, and staying up late in detention. But, if I must take an hour further to explain to you, then I must." He affected not to see the way Ron fidgeted, head bowed. A strange admixture of rage and guilt. Well, at least the guilt-trip sort of worked.</p><p>"Just…be quiet, and don't fight me on this, and I will remove the silencer once we are in the Room of Requirement—for I suppose there is nowhere else in the school where I can be <em>certain</em> that we will not be overheard. Try to get a hold of yourself."</p><p>And, he drew the invisibility cloak over them both.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter: a long rant from Harry on why he puts up with Umbridge's nonsense.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Familiar Refrain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry gives a speech explaining his current actions to Thor.  Hermione comes up with the idea for the D.A..</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hogwarts was quiet, and still. They might have been the only two out of bed. But, they couldn't be sure of avoiding teachers, let alone the ghosts, who, despite what some sayings claimed, had no need of sleep. Thor suffered himself to be led, and, filled with the subtle reminder that this explanation, necessary though it was, was cutting into time better spent sleeping and recovering (this was how his brother recovered his magic, he knew). It was not hyperbole to say that overwork was driving Harry to his death. And now, Thor had a share of it, too.</p><p>It was nearing midnight—by now they were a full hour later than they ought to have returned, and Hermione would be wide-awake, now awaiting the both of them. But this—Harry should have trusted them. He should have <em>told</em> them.</p><p>A sort of roiling fury rose within him, but, bobbing to the surface beneath that, the reminder that he had little recourse, little power to interfere, to intervene. Perhaps, his brother knew him well enough to know that such rage was the inevitable response to seeing him harmed, to knowing that he had been injured, with Thor none the wiser. Perhaps, his younger brother was still attempting to protect Thor from himself.</p><p>He did try to calm himself, and it mostly worked. It was a long walk, from their meeting point somewhere between the Defence Office and Gryffindor Tower, to the Room of Requirement, which was on the seventh floor, far removed from the rest of the school regardless of any circumstances. He found that focusing on his feet helped to drive other thoughts out of his mind, for the moment. He just needed to pay attention, and ensure that he did not get them caught….</p><p>At the corner leading into the corridor, Harry peered around to ensure that it was deserted (he must not have brought the Map), and then removed the cloak from both of them, stuffing it back into his pocket, and began to pace before the relevant stretch of wall. There is something inherently restless and agitated about pacing, and his brother had a long history of exercising—venting—his frustrations through that sole outlet, when perhaps he ought to have spoken about it instead (Stephen would certainly agree). It seemed almost cause for alarm, but he knew the way that the Room was summoned. He waited, in enforced silence.</p><p>The door shimmered into existence, and Harry dragged him into a small room with a sofa, and two armchairs, surrounding a low-set table. The shelves, and what appeared to be a bathroom sink, seemed to have been afterthoughts, added onto the room at the last minute. Harry all but threw him onto the sofa, dropped his satchel onto the floor in front of it, and turned to the sink, before sighing, and turning slowly back around.</p><p>"<em>Finite incantatem</em>," he said, sounding quite haggard and weary, for a moment, before he turned back to the sink, and began washing blood off his hand.</p><p>Thor stood, heading to the sink, curious as to what, precisely, Harry was doing. He was cleaning off the wound, of course, using very…muggle methods. It was one of the most incongruous scenes he'd witnessed in recent memory. Harry, god of magic (in a past life) in the heart of a <em>magical</em> school, cleaning off magic wounds with…what was "hydrogen peroxide"? Was it supposed to bubble and fizz on contact with a wound?</p><p>He had no familiarity with treating ordinary injuries in a muggle fashion. Back home, such injuries often went untreated at all. There was no need for it (or perhaps that was only common conception?). Mum had a variety of different spells at her disposal, including ones to heal minor scratches without the need for bandages. Of course…this was not an ordinary wound.</p><p><em>This</em>.</p><p>"Harry," he said, trying his hardest to be calm, and failing spectacularly. Harry turned, glanced at him, decided that he was less important than the current procedure, and turned back to the sink. In his usual way, he seemed to read Thor's mind. Why did he bother to ask the question, to speak at all? "You told me that she had you writing <em>lines</em>." Which was, to his knowledge, a fairly standard muggle punishment (for children, that was).</p><p>Harry did not seem the slightest bit perturbed by this accusation. He shrugged, and said, in a rather indifferent tone, "I was writing lines." He opened a package of bandages from a box next to the sink, without seeming overly troubled either by their origin (and therefore permanence) nor by the latent accusation.</p><p>"You neglected to mention that they were lines <em>carved into your own flesh</em>," Thor cried, his voice a low rumble, brimming with a barely-contained rage. There was a strong impetus to action, but no ready target towards which he might direct his ire. Umbridge was too well-protected.</p><p>Harry's response, as he should have expected, gave no heed to this sentiment of danger. "It must have slipped my mind," he lied, instead.</p><p>Thor frowned. "And, is that not considered torture, Brother? You have told me before that pain is the force that drives you to madness."</p><p>Harry at last lost his levity, and turned to face Thor, wrapping the bandage one-handed, without looking. "It is hardly worth speaking of. I have suffered far worse, from either of those we must not name. I must suppose that I have an abnormally high pain threshold, between one thing and another. Little short of the Cruciatus seems worth notice. <em>This</em> is nothing…a mere distraction. However, I knew that <em>you</em> would overreact, noticing only that she had drawn blood. It will likely scar, but it would not be my first scar, and, unlike the other, there may be ways to hide this one. Hmm. I would have to be in a bad way indeed for t<em>his</em> to drive me to madness. Peace."</p><p>Thor frowned. "Nevertheless, she must be taken to account for her actions," he insisted, setting aside the main problem, for the moment.</p><p>Harry at last gave him his undivided attention, eyes narrowing as he stared Thor down. The readiest reaction to such a glare was to look down at the floor, and study his shoes.</p><p>"And what do you propose we do? How to hold her accountable? She is the one with the power—you have no authority here. Even <em>Dumbledore's</em> authority is diminished, as he is 'on the out' with the Ministry. They do not trust his words. They do not trust mine. This is a war, one of three parties, and the third party is suspiciously silent. He will let us wear one another out, and then conquer those who remain. Smart of him, I admit.</p><p>"Will you turn to McGonagall? If she make a fuss (and she will want to, as a gryffindor head of the Gryffindor House, it is engrained in her nature), if she make any protest, Umbridge will say that she is unsuitable, or treasonous, or any other thing—slander is no obstacle to her—and all that will happen is that Professor McGonagall will be removed from the school. One fewer ally, when the time comes (and it is <em>when</em>) that we need allies.</p><p>"Will you have us turn to Dumbledore? He has avoided me all summer; I am not entirely sure that he even trusts me, except that no one has been tasked with requisitioning the Sword of Gryffindor. Perhaps, he intends that as sufficient token of his trust. But then, why give me information of the war to come—and then order me cut off from all knowledge gained after Riddle's return? I don't know his motives, but I know that the castle is under siege. His resources, such as they are, are all devoted to defending the castle, and withstanding the siege until the threatened invading army comes to do battle against the Ministry, and they call us allies and friends instead of traitors and rabble-rousers.</p><p>"You are our master strategist, Thor. You are the one of the three of us who is best at chess, no matter that Hermione and I have tried our hardest to learn. Did you not say, at the end of first year, that it is a game of sacrifice? Some blood and a bit of pain are all that I can contribute to the war effort, for the moment. If you wish to be of assistance, then stay out of the way, and keep your head down. Were those not McGonagall's instructions, particularly? I must draw fire, to shine a light on the advancing enemy. But, you? You should stand aside. This is nothing, in the broader scope of the war."</p><p>Harry rarely gave speeches, and when he did, they were always worth listening to. He was, most likely, right. Thor had seen the general lay of the land, as far as politics went. He saw that the Ministry had suddenly decided upon an offensive against Hogwarts…the metaphor of a siege had perhaps been there, too, not consciously noticed, but taken into account in any battle plans he might have laid.</p><p>And…Dumbledore, McGonagall, all the usual allies had their hands tied, there was nothing that they could do to help. Harry suffered alone, because he knew that he could bear it. Such trivial pain was barely worth noticing to <em>him</em>, who had borne worse.</p><p>Guilt won out. He had suffered as he had, and Thor had not been there. Would he add onto that burden his own disapproval, or bear the weight of his own helplessness? Harry suffered enough as it was. Thor reached out to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder, a silent show of support.</p><p>"Someday, she shall suffer for her crimes," he promised.</p><p>Harry shrugged, as if indifferent, and picked up the satchel. "Have you thought of a sufficient punishment for them? Because, even just with the ones that I'm aware of, I haven't found any strong enough. I suppose we could ask Hermione…."</p><p>As if by silent accord, they left the Room soon thereafter, in a sustained silence.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione was the next obstacle for Harry to pass. And she <em>would</em> be an obstacle. Thor insisted upon telling her as soon as they reached the common room. He informed Harry that she would be waiting for both of them, and that their delay would be cause for concern. She would wish to know exactly what happened, and that would mean telling her of the detour, which in turn would reveal Harry's well-kept secret.</p><p>"I see that I am to have no rest, tonight," Harry said, as he pulled the invisibility cloak back out of his pocket. "Be that as it may, I knew that I would never avoid Hermione's wrathful gaze forever. It would seem that the two of you are well-matched."</p><p>Thor could think of no good response to this (he seldom could), and instead, they hastened through the empty halls of Hogwarts, thankfully <em>not</em> encountering either Mrs. Norris, nor Filch, on the way.</p><p>And, yes, Hermione was waiting. And, yes, she was irate, demanding to know why they had kept her waiting. Did they have detention? Had Thor been caught? Why had Harry been so long in detention?</p><p>"You will need to take my word for it," Harry snapped, at last, interrupting Hermione's endless flow of words, "but Umbridge kept me late writing lines. She didn't think she was making enough of an impression on me."</p><p>"Harry," Thor said, a warning, a reminder not to cut the story short.</p><p>"Also," Harry said, shooting Thor a sharp glare, "I am reminded to inform you that her detentions are <em>literal</em> torture, and will add for my own part that I am not feeling much up for a lengthy discussion of the matter. Loss of blood, and all. Ron can explain the matter to you further."</p><p>He waved goodnight, and made his retreat, leaving Thor to try to explain matters to Hermione.</p>
<hr/><p>No one was surprised that "Ron Weasley" was once more accepted as reserve chaser for the year; he was a good flier (better than his brother, Charlie, he heard whispered once or twice). He had the sense that he would not have taken this news as well had he been <em>only</em> Ron Weasley.</p><p>He understood Loki's jealousy better, now, the sense and sentiment of being always overlooked, undervalued, unimpressive, forever in someone else's shadow, multiplied by five to account for Bill, and Charlie, the estranged Percy, Fred, and George. Their shadows still seemed to loom large, casting a pall, an unnatural chill, over him.</p><p>He also knew the pressures, the trials and hardships that came of being eldest, of forging a path for your younger siblings, to be the protector, guide, and guard. He had seen both sides of the mirror, and that helped him to withstand his current circumstances.</p><p>But, he also knew, had he even been <em>only</em> Ron Weasley, this year would not have been one ruled by envy. With Percy on the out, having severed ties with his family in a way that reminded Thor almost of Loki, but with a certainty that no mind control was involved, he was guided only by his own <em>ambition</em>, Harry's well-being, the assurance that there were those who would stand by him, no matter what, would have taken precedence. And, Percy was swift to slander Harry, no less than those who were strangers to Harry, who might be forgiven for not realising that the Ministry's picture, how they portrayed Harry, was far from accurate.</p><p>Percy sent letters, sometimes, but they were full of airs and exaggerated gravitas. It was as if a stranger were writing these letters, in which he bragged about his high position, sung Umbridge and Fudge's praises, but made no move to apologise, to enquire as to how the rest of the family was doing, to explain himself.</p><p>Knowing what he now knew of Umbridge, Thor took to burning those letters, instead. He told himself that it was to avoid upsetting Harry, if he knew that there had been any sort of correspondence between them (although Thor had never been able to bring himself to write <em>anything</em> in return; what would he say? Should he demand answers, and apologies? Should he request that Percy stop writing altogether?). He knew that that would be a lie, however: he burnt them because Percy had no right to abandon his family (of his own free will, at that) and then act as if he were the aggrieved party. And, he had no right to add to Harry's burden.</p><p>At such times as these, Thor felt more keenly that <em>Harry</em> was family, and perhaps Hermione. Harry, though never connected to him by blood (until now?); Hermione the woman he loved. The Weasleys seemed less his family, with their internecine quarrels, deep-seated bitterness—Bill and Charlie his elders by too many years for him to know them well, Percy estranged, and Fred and George… well, they'd had their share of making Ron as insecure as he'd grown up being, until his tenth birthday….</p><p>Ginny was the exception, the only one of them younger than Thor, as if to recreate, in imperfect fashion, the past. He kept a close eye on her. There was red, and there was yellow, and in between those two was orange. If the Wizarding World were yellow, and Asgard red, then Ginny was yellow, and Harry was red, and Thor was orange, if a redder orange than usual. Muggles had a tool they called the "Venn Diagram". But, it was not designed to accommodate shade and degrees.</p><p>If he weren't a Weasley, then there was little regret to be had, burning Percy's letters. He became his own authority, outside the watchful eyes of Heimdall, and Father. But, what bond connected him to Ginny, then?</p><p>But for her, and Mum and Dad, he might have washed his hands of the family altogether (no, he wouldn't have, he knew, this was a pure hypothetical). He was estranged, the outcast, the outlier, now. He thought back to his memories of home, and wondered how Loki had borne it. The looming threats of this year brought him back into a sort of pensive wariness.</p><p>And, in addition to all this, Hermione, incensed at Harry's suffering, and determined to fight Umbridge in any manner she could think of (and the formation of S.P.E.W. showed that she was never at a loss for ideas), spent the Sunday after quidditch tryouts sketching out the barest traces of a plan, her ultimate act of insubordination. She could be heard muttering to herself, consulting the calendar hanging on the notice board for the first Hogsmeade trip of the year, scribbling frantic notes with her textbooks closed. Harry was not around to be alarmed at her behaviour, but all the gryffindor fifth years knew to be wary of her when she was in such a frenzy.</p><p>He had made it onto the reserve team, again, but this was no cause for celebration, this year. Ginny and Hermione were the only two to congratulate him, Ginny with a "Well done, but we expected no less from you", Hermione with a "Well, but the odds were stacked against them, weren't they?" spoken with such a shaking voice that Thor knew she was thinking how unfair it was that mortal men were expected to compete against gods. Well, if ever he started a thunderstorm during a match, then she would have cause for complaint. Not that it mattered; he had never yet been called to compete.</p><p>The gazes of Fred and George passed over him, as if not noticing that he was even aware. He knew that they were seeking for Harry, instead, and in other circumstances, that might have been cause for resentment, jealousy, that The Twins valued Harry more highly. But, whether they knew it or not, the three of them were pranksters all, Harry's sort of people, were he in his right mind, and not so fixated on past, and future, and future-that-is-past. Thor overlooked it.</p><p>After that Thursday night when Thor and Hermione had discovered the truth about Harry's detentions, Hermione made some sort of medicine for Harry—"essence of murtlap", she said it was, claiming that it took away the pain. Harry might have said that he didn't mind the pain, that he'd borne far worse, but he knew how to be gracious, and when a fight was senseless. He knew that better than Thor, of course. He accepted the bowl, and sat, brooding, in one of the armchairs by the fire, deep in thought.</p><p>It was the sort of late hour that is habitually visited by inane thoughts such as—<em>does fire no longer trouble Harry, then</em>? He didn't ask such questions aloud, because they were deeply intertwined with rather sensitive, thorny memories that it would only hurt Harry to bring up. He pulled out a chess board, and stared at the pieces, trying to figure out just how tangential the connection between chess and actual strategy was. Was he a good commander, a good tactician, or was chess an irrelevant skill?</p>
<hr/><p>Thor discovered what Hermione's top secret plans were in the second week of school, sometime shortly after Harry had come across one of Percy's letters before Thor could burn it properly. That expression on Harry's face, before he'd regained control of himself, informed Thor that they needed to be doing <em>something</em>, and of course, Hermione was the one who made smart plans.</p><p>Thor had had a moment. after Umbridge had been made High Inquisitor via Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three, when he thought that Hermione's action would be too late. It made him easier to convince than he might otherwise have been. Harry discovered the same the week after, when she prevailed upon him to teach a Defence Against the Dark Arts class of his own.</p><p>She'd had to get Thor on board first, of course, but he had to concede that no one knew more of magic, or of defensive magic, than his brother. How much of that would be useful for the average <em>mortal</em>, however… and she'd wisely timed the conversation for shortly before his detention, on the afternoon after Umbridge had inspected Trelawney, when Harry was still incensed on her behalf.</p><p>"We did spend a lot of last year researching offensive and defensive spells for use in the Tournament," Hermione had insisted, and she'd worn him down. The truth was, Harry <em>did</em> have the potential to be a good teacher—he even had some experience in teaching defensive, if Sirius and Remus were to be believed. He was well-versed in a variety of different magics, and smart enough to manage to teach what he knew of wizarding magic without the magic of home intruding upon his instruction. Of course, there was always the threat posed by his ability to overestimate his pupils durability…and flexibility…and reserves….</p><p>But, there didn't seem to be any real dangers to this course of action that fifth year students hadn't already been exposed to—the incompetence of the fraud, Lockhart; the deliberate miseducation of Quirrell; and let's not forget last year, when a false Moody had put each of them under the Imperius Curse….</p><p>They could do worse than Harry. In fact, save for Remus, who had been <em>taught by</em> Harry, they could scarce expect to do as well as he.</p><p>This was the case that Thor laid out for his brother, as if it were necessary that he be the one to broach the subject.</p><p>Harry leant back in his armchair, and put his head in his hands. "Not even the end of September, yet, and already plotting to break the rules, are we, Hermione?" he asked, with something that was both despair and amusement.</p><p>"I'm not suggesting this because it's what I <em>want</em> to do!" she snapped. "I'm suggesting it because this is important, and you're the only one with the experience to guide us!"</p><p>She glared at Harry, who just looked a bit pensive, in return.</p><p>"I <em>do</em> like the idea of a covert organisation operating right under the Ministry's noses," he mused. "And I can't deny we need the practice."</p><p>Thus, the DA was born.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Dumbledore's Army Assembles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The foundation of the D.A..  Also, the quidditch match where Harry, Fred, and George were banned from quidditch for life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They started off by gathering at the Hog's Head at the end of September. Owned as it was by the Headmaster's older brother, Harry assumed that there was no safer place to discuss plans. He would later realise that this was wrong, of course, but too late to do anything about it.</p><p>Over twenty-five people came, professing interest in the unofficial defence class, but, predictably enough, in actuality wanting to know exactly what had happened last June. The hufflepuff named Zacharias Smith was particularly insufferable, on this front. Seamus threatened him with some particularly nasty hexes, and Fred threatened to shove a nasty-looking instrument into an unspeakable part of Smith's anatomy, and Smith fell silent.</p><p>Cho Chang was there on behalf of her boyfriend, but she'd dragged her sceptical friend Marietta Edgecomb along. The only assurance Harry had that either Smith, Edgecomb, or both wouldn't stab the group in their collective backs the moment they had the opportunity was the sheet of paper Hermione had everyone sign, swearing them to complete silence, upon penalty of…something unknown. Sometimes, it was best to let people come up with their own punishments. Hermione seemed to be following this tack. She had the potential to be devastatingly brutal, if left unchecked. Keeping her in check was, poetically enough, Ron's job. Harry wished him joy of it.</p><p>The first meeting of the substitute Defence Against the Dark Arts class was held in the Room of Requirement, the safest place in the school. This was the only room that could provide for its occupants whatever they might need (Harry had yet to find its limits).</p><p>Hermione had quietly bypassed Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four, stating that all groups were disbanded and needed permission from Umbridge to reform, using vows of secrecy and word of mouth to transfer knowledge of the location of the next meeting, and the time, to the rest of the group. Unfortunately, the membership was spread throughout three of the four houses, which made coordinating matters a bit more difficult than anyone liked.</p><p>At that first meeting, they chose a name, and a leader (Harry was overruled on both accounts, and became the leader of Dumbledore's Army as a result). He might have wished that Ron were the leader instead (he <em>was</em> their strategist and the Crown Prince; if anyone deserved the role of leader, it was he), but Harry could hardly make such protestations.</p><p>He might have wished that they call the group something innocuous like the Champions of the World, but calling it the DA would do. It was hard to fight against Ginny's arguments, anyway. It was clever to come up with an innocuous name like the Defence Association, with a nice, short abbreviation. He hardly sulked at all.</p><p>Hermione ended the meeting by handing out fake galleons that would show the date and time of the next meeting. When she'd had time to make these couldn't be known. Still, the group left the room united by a common cause.</p><p>Mostly united. There were still some people that Harry felt the need to keep an eye on. Still, good to know that it wasn't any of them to betray the group's existence to Umbridge (Hermione was too smugly certain that they would <em>know</em> if one of the members turn traitor to doubt her).</p>
<hr/><p>Harry's confrontation with the Twins happened at about this time. Harry had only meant to find out how the Joke Shop was coming along, and whether or not they needed more funds. But, no, they seemed well-enough off, as far as that was concerned. Five hundred galleons was a lot of money, and Sirius was more than willing to make up the difference.</p><p>"Then," Harry made the mistake of continuing. "I fail to see why you need to draft first year students as guinea pigs. You know that Hermione disapproves, and that Ron will disapprove of anything that upsets her."</p><p>"And, <em>you'll</em> object to anything that upsets him!" said Gred. "See you here, trying to talk us out of a completely legit business model, just because it upsets <em>Ron</em>! Indirectly! What's <em>he</em> ever done to garner such respect from you? Don't think we haven't noticed that <em>he's</em> the only one you call Big Brother, even though <em>we</em> came up with the idea!"</p><p>They were much more distressed by this than made sense to Harry, under anything that might be considered usual circumstances. However…when were circumstances ever usual for him? Their indignation certainly struck him as sincere. And, they <em>were</em> pranksters…there was a sort of common bond formed from that, alone. Hmm.</p><p>Perhaps, it was because he was (had been) the God of Mischief, a residual sentiment that (fellow) pranksters took note of, without realising it. There was a sort of injustice to that, a taint between any overture of friendship that they had ever made—but that wasn't their fault, and all hypothetical, regardless. Perhaps, he was just misinterpreting them, again, because of lack of familiarity with friendships.</p><p>That was suspect mostly because it was what he <em>wanted</em> to believe. He didn't have the best track record with accuracy; what he <em>wanted</em> to be true rarely was. The universe was still having its revenge upon him.</p><p>He shook it off, as best he could.</p><p>"What has Ron done that you haven't?" he asked, with levels of sarcasm that would have made Stephen proud. "Well, let's see: in first year, he nearly got killed by a giant chess set trying to get us to the Philosopher's Stone. In second year, he followed me into the Chamber of Secrets—not his fault we got separated. Third year reunited me with my dogfather, and last year forewent sleep and food to help me train for the Tournament. What have <em>you</em> lot done?"</p><p>There was no bitterness in his voice, no vitriol, no reproach, but the Twins withdrew nonetheless. "You do something worth it, and I'll call you Big Brother (or is that Big Brothers?). Until then, I think we should all stop underestimating Ron."</p><p>He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken, thus, in Ron's defence. Perhaps, Hermione had a point. And, maybe he was, once again, taking Ron for granted. He should do something about that….</p><p>They even looked somewhat ashamed. He hadn't meant to give them a dressing-down, but he supposed he had. "Not that I don't appreciate your help, and all. I'm just suggesting you might want to go easy on breaking the rules, and not irritate your future sister-in-law," he said, with a grin intended to disarm. They relaxed somewhat, which was a start.</p><p>"Future sister-in-law?" repeated Gred a moment later, in overt horror. Harry nodded, and folded his arms.</p><p>"Hermione, of course," he said, as if this fact had eluded them.</p><p>"Ickle Ronniekins <em>is</em> going to turn into another Percy," Forge muttered under his breath. "First making prefect, and then—"</p><p>"What did I <em>just</em> say about not underestimating him!" Harry snapped. "I find it interesting, regardless, that you insist that Ron's happiness is my priority, whilst Hermione insists I treat him like shit. Those can't both be true, you know."</p><p>Maybe technically they could, but he was not about to point this out to them, either.</p><p>"It's just," Gred said, sitting uneasily at their favoured table, with a strange wariness. "We still remember what we did first year and all, but we thought we were your friends—after that, at least."</p><p>What had happened first year? That seemed such a long time ago (which was ironic, because of the <em>why</em> behind it seeming so long ago). He knew he'd been a different person, then. Let's see—</p><p>"We said we'd make it up to you. We gave you the Map," Forge protested, in what was almost a whine.</p><p>Ah, yes. The Map.</p><p>"The Map is sufficient cancellation of any and all debts hitherto accrued. Congratulations," Harry said. "But, if you're looking to add me to your band of merry troublemakers, I am <em>devastated</em> to inform you that my calendar is full for the next few decades. You might try one of the remaining Marauders, instead."</p><p>That did the trick. He left the Common Room to the Twins protesting (in unison): "Wait! You know the <em>Marauders</em>?"</p><p>And yes, he <em>had</em> known that Sirius and Remus hadn't told them. So shoot him. Just not the way that one S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had.</p>
<hr/><p>The first match of the season was, as always, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Well, as almost always, the last two years being anomalous. There was something in how the events of that day unfolded and played out that struck home just how harsh and unfair the year would be, how the board was arranged against them. They were all reeling, by the end.</p><p>Harry caught the snitch; it was a clear-cut victory. All should have been well. But, Crabbe tried to knock Harry off his broom with the beater's bat, and Malfoy took the opportunity afforded by Madam Hooch's distraction to goad them. "Them" being the Weasleys and Harry.</p><p>In the beginning, when Malfoy started up his usual speech about how many Weasleys there were, and how dirt poor and shameful they were, Harry, who had already dismounted and was by Thor's side, ready to intervene, had clamped his hand tight around Thor's arm, a warning, a reminder. He had done this without calling any attention to his actions, silently holding Thor back. Ginny was able to restrain George, and Hermione rushed over as fast as she could to pin down Fred.</p><p>And then, Malfoy made the mistake of his life: he dragged <em>Mother</em> into the mix. <em>What</em> he was thinking was far from clear; Thor was inclined to agree with Harry that Malfoy was just too stupid to understand when he was doing something senselessly dangerous. He was, Harry said, a slytherin by default, possessed of a slight degree of slytherin cunning, and its trademarked bigotry, and no other personality sufficient to drive him into one of the other houses.</p><p>"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said, through clenched teeth, as Malfoy said something about how "dumpy" and unrefined Mum was. She was full of warmth and love and kindness—who cared if she could be a bit undignified? Who cared what she looked like? Yellow shoved back against red. He had been in more than a couple of fights against Malfoy, but Malfoy never seemed to realise that he was far outclassed. Perhaps, the shame of another loss would silence him. Thor felt genuinely fifteen years old at that moment (<em>you're only somewhere between seventeen and twenty, say, anyway</em>, Harry said, with an indifferent shrug).</p><p>"Oh? What's this? That's right, you <em>like</em> the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" Malfoy asked. "I hear you spent the summer with them last year. I suppose the stench of blood traitors reminds you of your own home from when you were a baby, that mudblood stink of your mother's—"</p><p>Harry went very still. His grip on Thor's arm hard enough to bruise even him, but he didn't seem aware of that fact.</p><p>Malfoy's eyes glinted in triumph, knowing he'd hit a mark, although <em>which</em> probably evaded him. Harry took a step forwards, and that drew his attention to the arm he still held in a vise-like grip. He blinked at it, and raised his head again to look at Malfoy.</p><p>"I will give you only this last chance," he said, in a voice darker, deeper, than usual, and full of portent. "Hand over your wand to me, now, or I will take it from you. You know what happens then. Your family is rich; they can afford to singlehandedly finance Ollivander."</p><p>He held out his left hand, his free hand, and Malfoy scoffed. "Do you think I'm an idiot, Potter?" Malfoy demanded. "<em>Petrif</em>—"</p><p>"<em>Incendio</em>!" Harry countered, drawing the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand from his left sleeve in a heartbeat. Too fast for a human to compete. Malfoy's eyes widened, and he staggered back.</p><p>"You—you just tried to kill me!" he cried, in a voice suited for the stage. Such melodrama. If Harry had been aiming to kill, he had the precision and repertoire to do just that.</p><p>"<em>Expelliarmus</em>!" Harry cried, next, and Malfoy's latest wand leapt into Harry's left hand. He shoved it back into the right-hand holster. Malfoy was starting to regain his balance when Fred swung his first punch. Hermione had been startled into letting him go.</p><p>"Boys! That is <em>enough</em>! What is the meaning of this!" cried McGonagall, appearing without warning. Harry's grip, impossibly, tightened even more. He was glaring death at what could be seen of Malfoy. It was less that Malfoy had crossed some invisible line, and more that he had rejected Harry's final offer of clemency. There was to be no more forgiveness, no more <em>bygones</em>. Harry could afford no distractions, in this environment. No more going easy on him.</p><p>Harry glanced around the field, paling, and let go Thor's arm, stuffing the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand back into his left-hand holster, and drawing Malfoy's, handing it over to Thor. Although nonplussed and unable to figure out Harry's intentions, he took the wand, sliding it into his pocket.</p><p>"My office! Now! All of you!" McGonagall snapped, eyes blazing as she glared around the field at what should have been a moment of triumph.</p><p>But, Gryffindor was well-versed in the skill of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Here came Umbridge, now, to seal the deal, stumping towards them with a twisted grin of triumph.</p><p>"Oh, no, Professor," she simpered. "I think I must really be present for this."</p><p>"I am their head of house, and it is my responsibility to hand out punishments as I see fit!" McGonagall cried, but she was unable to deny Umbridge, and Umbridge knew it. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were left behind, as the "innocents" of the affair, and Malfoy's gloating was a horrible sight to behold.</p><p>Harry was still shaking with rage, and, if such could be judged by a glance, still too angry to be of any use. The scars from his detentions almost shone white. His fists were clenched tight. It was one of those rare occasions wherein <em>Harry</em> would have reacted with physical violence.</p><p>McGonagall led the seven of them to her office, and flung the door wide open, ushering them in, in silence. "In," she ordered, quite unnecessarily. Harry was still too full of raw energy to be deferential. There was a sort of haughty defiance to the set of his shoulders, the remnants of arrogance, with his shoulders thrown back and his back straight.</p><p>She shut the door behind them, reluctantly holding it open for Umbridge.</p><p>"I want to start by saying that I am very disappointed in all of your behaviour. I expect better of my students. Detention, for you, Mr. Potter, and—"</p><p>"Hem hem," Umbridge cut across, and Professor McGonagall turned her eyes skyward in a silent plea for patience. "I rather think that they deserve worse than detention. After all, these two <em>attacked</em> Mr. Malfoy. They might even have killed him—"</p><p>"Excuse me, but they are students in my house, and it is up to me to set any punishments. Now, as I was saying, detention for you, Mr. Potter, for the next month, and you too, Mr. Weasley—"</p><p>"But, Malfoy started it," Fred said. "He insulted our Mum—and Harry's—"</p><p>"I don't care if he insulted every member of your family, living and dead. Of course he insulted your family! He'd just lost a match, he was looking for any sort of release he could find. You should have just ignored him, and—"</p><p>"Excuse me, Professor," Umbridge cut in again. McGonagall visibly calmed herself, taking deep breaths, as Harry often told Hermione to. "I really think these two should be banned for quidditch for life for their actions. Clearly, the violence of the sport is a bad influence on their behaviour, and they can't be trusted to maintain their tempers under these conditions."</p><p>Harry knew that she was riling him up, but he still was finding it impossible to hide just what effect her words were having upon him. That took some skill, to bypass Harry's usual mental defences. Of course, those seemed mysteriously weaker anyway, of late.</p><p>"And, as I said before, <em>I</em> am their head of house, and it is for me to decide."</p><p>Harry's gaze flicked to McGonagall, but he was disengaged from the one-sided shouting match. He was doing his best to calm himself, and failing. Thor laid a hand upon his shoulder, and he started, whipping his head back to glare at Thor.</p><p>But, the gaze turned speculative, and then Harry turned back away, bowing his head.</p><p>Thor took the moment of distraction to hit Harry over the head. It seemed the sort of situation that warranted it, and neither professor was paying them any heed at the moment. Fred and George were still incensed at the latest turns of events. Only Ginny and Hermione stood to notice what he was doing, and of the two, it was only Ginny who was not in the know. Perhaps, he ought to tell her….</p><p>"Ah, but in Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five—"</p><p>"Oh, not another one!" cried McGonagall, in some exasperation, but Umbridge bowled her over, metaphorically speaking.</p><p>"—I am given the right to hand out punishments as I see fit, even overruling my fellow teachers. I really must thank you for this, Minerva. After all, if you'll remember, you appealed to Dumbledore to reinstate the Gryffindor quidditch team.</p><p>"Clearly, this wouldn't do. If I am to be of any use as High Inquisitor, I must have greater authority than my fellow teachers. So, Cornelius—ooh, silly me, I mean <em>Minster Fudge</em>—" Harry winced at the offensive, fake girlish giggling that interrupted her speech here, "—has sent in the latest educational decree. And, by my newfound authority, I hereby ban Harry Potter and Frederic Weasley from quidditch, <em>for life</em>!"</p><p>"For…for <em>life</em>?" Fred repeated, sounding stunned.</p><p>"Oh, and this young man would clearly have attacked Malfoy too, if that little girl hadn't held him back, so I think I'll extend that ban to you as well," she said, not dignifying George with the use of his actual name.</p><p>"<em>For life</em>?" Fred repeated, again. He sounded…defeated. Lost. Umbridge gave a truly evil smirk at this turn of events, and straightened up, trying her best to look majestic, despite her short, squat build.</p><p>"You may thank me for my generosity. I have gone easy on you. Attacking a fellow student….attempted murder—"</p><p>Harry didn't seem able to keep himself from interrupting, at this. "'Attempted murder'? None of us attempted to <em>kill</em> Malfoy. None of us are incompetent enough to fail at such a simple task. Aggravated assault, in my case, perhaps—"</p><p>"Detention, for you, Mr. Potter. A month's worth, I think, as my <em>esteemed colleague</em> first suggested. In addition to your lifelong quidditch ban."</p><p>She smirked at him. He folded his arms, and raised an eyebrow in response.</p><p>Thor swayed on his feet, remembering the last batch of detentions—and those had lasted only a week. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. Were Umbridge not watching Harry closely, he was sure that Harry (who always seemed to have an accurate way of predicting the responses of those he knew, one that rarely failed him) would almost certainly have glared at Thor to silence him, to keep him from drawing attention to himself. Thor couldn't help but feel that Harry was playing the role of the living shield, taking the blow meant for him, himself. While he usually had absolute control over his own abilities, now they were once more threatening to slip past his self-control. He <em>wanted</em> to set something on fire, come to it, but he knew that that was a bad idea.</p><p>While it would have been gratifying to break Malfoy's nose, a thought penetrated through his rising anger on his brothers' behalf: Harry had cottoned on so early, and had kept him so still, that even Umbridge had little notion of the aborted efforts he had made towards harming Malfoy. Watching Harry get the better of Malfoy was always a sight to behold (and quite as gratifying, in its own way, as besting him in a fight), so once Harry had started his assault, Thor had felt no further need to fight Malfoy. Magic had always been his brother's arena, and words likewise, and in a magical place, trading barbs, Thor thought he was justified in deferring to Harry's expertise.</p><p>Harry was taking the blow intended for him—shielding him so completely (and Harry was such an appealing target for her) that Umbridge overlooked Thor, paid him no mind. She had punished Fred, and George, and Harry. Ginny and Hermione had more self-control than to fall for Malfoy's tricks. But, Thor escaped punishment only because Harry had protected him.</p><p>Wasn't Thor the one who was supposed to look after and protect <em>Harry</em>? Wasn't that his responsibility, as the elder brother? How did this keep happening? How did Harry keep suffering, trying to help <em>him</em>?</p><p>The least he could do was to try to keep from drawing Umbridge's attention. Skewed Harry's priorities might be, but he knew that he would consider it a defeat, were Umbridge to be aware that she'd upset <em>anyone</em> with her talk of lifelong bans from quidditch. Fred's response was bad enough. George looked quite as lost. Neither of them seemed to notice that Harry had also been banned. They were still too mired in their own recent miseries.</p><p>Banned from quidditch—for life! How dared she? But, such thoughts had to come later. <em>Show no weakness</em>, Thor thought. He understood the game his brother was playing, for once. He'd seen the triumph in her eyes. Harry refused to give her any satisfaction. Thor must try to be as strong.</p><p>He glared down at his shoes, but managed not to set anything on fire. He folded his arms behind his back, instead, just in case, as no one stood behind him to see if electricity gathered around his hands. It was the best he could do.</p><p>Hermione was quite as bad at hiding her emotions, her face set in a vicious, dagger glare. But, Ginny…there was a certain blankness to her expression, as if she were not properly attending. She stared down at the floor, scuffing her feet, and studying the brickwork of the floor as if they told a fascinating story—far more interesting than anything Umbridge had to say.</p><p>"Thank you for your input, Dolores," McGonagall said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That will be all."</p><p>"I think we must also confiscate their brooms, remove any temptation to go against their punishment," Umbridge added, sounding delighted. Thor, watching, saw Harry's fist clench, but it was the only outward sign that Harry cared at all about this second part of Umbridge's punishment (or perhaps the third?). Perhaps, the important thing was that it had been a gift from Sirius (Stephen <em>would</em> remind them that Sirius was to die that year). To lose such a gift, when Harry had so few possessions to his name….</p><p>But, this was not the train of thought to follow, not while Umbridge was watching. He moved back around behind Harry, although that felt rather as if he were using Harry as a human (or humanoid?) shield. He rested a hand upon Harry's shoulder in a silent show of support. Yes, he made sure that he wasn't sparking, first.</p><p>But, Umbridge was High Inquisitor, and Professor McGonagall knew that she had no authority with which to fight the woman who had the Ministry backing her. Galling though it was, she gave a stiff nod, accepting Harry's increased punishment. Doubtless, her internal justification was something to the effect of the fact that the pyrergonic spell "incendio" was a purely offensive one, and thus Harry <em>might</em> have killed Malfoy by using it. No matter that Harry had aimed for Malfoy's hand, rather than at any sort of vital organ, and that he had used it in its weakest form.</p><p>Harry did not seem at all affected, which must have been a severe disappointment to Umbridge, as she must have been hoping to punish him most of all. But, he acted indifferent to both of her punishments. Anyone could see her casting around for something further to add onto the mix. Harry's feigned indifference seemed to be backfiring, here. But she, too, was making a mistake—without quidditch to distract him, Harry had the more time to spend on his secret Defence group. It seemed to have become an unofficial means of revenge for him, and now it would become his primary focus.</p><p>"Nine o'clock sharp, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said, at length. Apparently, she was (mercifully) a woman of limited imagination. Or, she needed time to enact the next step of her evil plan. It was even possible that she realised that Harry only feigned indifference to his new circumstances. The only thing that they knew with any certainty was that her actions were not in any way influenced by the foreign concept of <em>mercy</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sure that it comes as a surprise to just about no one that my computer is the reason I'm late.  Again.  This time, my internet browser itself crashed.  I took a couple of days optimistically thinking it would suddenly start working again, as I was in the midst of replying to a comment.  Eventually, I realised that I'd have to restart my computer.  That, in itself, was an ordeal lasting several days.  No, I don't know why.  My computer just hates me.<br/>Sorry about that.<br/><strike>I'll try to post again on Friday, but this comes in the midst of when I should  be transferring new chapters to work with into doc manager anyway.  Which, as I think you might remember, is what made me late last time.<br/>...<br/>Wish me luck?</strike></p><p>What was I even thinking?  I should have known better.  If I had any commons sense, it would have occurred to me that this is the week of Thanksgiving, which is always a very busy week here.<br/>...Maybe next week?<br/>Also, I've fixed the chapter publication date so that it no longer says it was published last year.  Yay.  If only The Archive let you set publication dates ahead--or let you save drafts without setting a publication date.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. No, the Plot Isn't Headed That Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>mostly about the first meeting of Dumbledore's Army, with some of Harry finally wondering about Neville's past thrown in.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's a period of about five chapters, starting about here, that resisted all my attempts to make them work.  They're not even the worst chapters of the book, but you've reached the roughest section of this fanfic.  Abandon all hope.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If Dumbledore had been on speaking terms with Harry, had he known about the D.A. (which he perhaps did), he would have been impressed with how well it progressed. Harry had started everyone off with the wizarding equivalents of basics, namely the Disarming Spell. Smith was dismissive, but everyone else liked the idea of starting with a spell they'd had (for the most part) three years to practice, as it had been introduced halfway through Harry's second year.</p>
<p>Harry threw himself into the work (whilst still continuing his research and planning into everything else, naturally, at the cost of his preparation for the O.W.L.s; he would insist to anyone who dared to ask that the practical things were much more important than whether or not you could perform certain spells on demand under "carefully controlled conditions").</p>
<p>As was evident from almost the very start, he was a very good, if somewhat brutal, teacher. The first lesson had been purely administrative in nature, laying out that Harry was in charge (perhaps no one should have given him absolute authority in <em>anything</em>, but it was too late to retract now!), and that their group would be called the D.A. (which Harry tolerated only because Ginny had suggested it).</p>
<p>Hermione had pinned the signed list of members to the wall, and Harry had ripped it off, charmed it so that it appeared to be some queer manner of shopping list, and summoned an old-fashioned treasure chest from…somewhere, into which he shoved the list, along with a couple of textbooks that hadn't been there a moment ago either, before locking it, and shoving the key into his pocket, where absolutely no one complained that it might get lost. Everyone watched him do this, but they all somehow believed that Harry was incapable of losing…anything. Including a small key. It was almost amusing, how completely they trusted him. But, it was much more disturbing, and alarming, than amusing.</p>
<p>No one had gainsaid him on the matter. He'd shot Hermione an unimpressed look, and she blushed and looked away, as if ashamed. All of Harry's gryffindor yearmates present (which was almost all of them, including Lavender, Parvati, Seamus, Dean, Neville, and of course Ron and Hermione) were unsurprised by Harry's alarming level of paranoia.</p>
<p>None of them jumped when Harry said, "Think for a minute, Hermione: even <em>I</em> am unsure as to how the Room of Requirement operates. Perhaps all Umbridge would need do would be to walk thrice past that stretch of wall thinking of incriminating evidence against us, and the list would appear, taped to the wall. This isn't much protection, but it's better than nothing. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"</p>
<p>Some of the lower years jumped, or looked startled, eyes widening in alarm, but Neville gave a nervous little laugh, running a hand through his hair—all of the fifth year gryffindor boys were too used to Harry's odd behaviour to find this especially strange. Hermione pouted, but made no protests. Nor did she explain just what she'd been thinking to begin with.</p>
<p>One of the very first things Harry had done upon the arrival of the last individual on the list was to vanish the door, which didn't keep him from insisting that the room needed sentries. They would take it in shifts to watch. The Room gamely provided them with a one-way window into the corridor outside; within the room, it looked like a window; without the room, an ordinary stretch of wall. Take that, muggle two-way mirrors!</p>
<p>The choices as to who served which shift were based primarily upon each individual's particular strengths—it made sense that, if someone was having particular difficulty with a certain spell, they should be working on that instead of guarding the door. This meant, as Neville noted rather dismally, that he'd never get the shift, and Hermione would spend most of her time door-monitoring. Hermione glared at both Neville and Harry for this. He spread his hands in surrender, but grinned.</p>
<p>With the administrative details set, they could set into actual practice the next week (which was the second meeting; the third if you counted the one they'd had at the Hog's Head). Despite this fact, Harry started the meeting off with a lecture, all about how different pitched combat was from practice, and that there was only so much that he could teach them, which meant that they'd need to have periodic assessments of their skill. Ron had an idea of what he meant by this, and buried his head in his hands. "Assessments", ha!</p>
<p>"Knowing the spells is nothing next to the ability to improvise and think, even during high-stress situations." Harry didn't glance at Hermione when he said this, but she blushed scarlet and looked down at her shoes, anyway. "My goal here is not to teach you some sort of secret spell that cannot be countered—if you seek for one of those, might I suggest the Unforgivable Curses, even if they <em>are</em> Forbidden? But those, too, have their limitations. They cannot be countered, but they <em>can</em> be dodged and blocked. They take effect when they hit <em>any</em> target, inanimate, living, or dead.</p>
<p>"The Imperius and Cruciatus Curses can be overcome with sufficient willpower…but I would suppose that everyone in this room had their chance with fighting the Imperius Curse last year, and I am not about to cast the Torture Curse upon any of you for no other reason than to teach you how to work through pain. If you are such masochists as to wish to know how to overcome such pain, then you must do that on your own time, and not waste the rest of ours. I will have time only for the basic, fundamental defences that will avail you in the sort of duels you are liable to encounter over the course of the coming war."</p>
<p>He removed his hands from his pockets, and drew the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. "I mean to say this only once: there is no miracle spell to best all spells. I shall not, therefore, teach it to you. Instead, we will work on battle readiness, and ensure that you know the spells that have served me best in battle—you <em>are</em> turning to me for authority—as well as those that seem promising, but which I have not had much opportunity to use. Where necessary, I am willing to give individual instruction. My goal is to keep all of you alive and as safe as possible during the coming war, and to assist you in protecting others. I make no guarantees that this will be in a safe environment."</p>
<p>"<em>What</em>!" demanded Smith, as if Harry had just called his mother a troll. Harry didn't know what he'd just said that could be considered offensive. He cocked his head, staring at Smith, who started to squirm under Harry's gaze.</p>
<p>"Is there a problem, Smith?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Did you just threaten to put us into dangerous situations?" Smith demanded, pointing at Harry with a shaking hand. Harry blinked.</p>
<p>"Is there any better way to learn?" he asked. "No matter <em>what</em> Umbridge says, if you are attacked, as I believe Dean said, it will not be in a carefully-controlled environment. Few people learn best with only being <em>told</em> how to react, when they are never tested. You-Know-Who will not go easy on you. Umbridge and Fudge will not go easy on you. <em>I</em>, therefore, must not go easy on you. I would be remiss in my duties, if I did."</p>
<p>He noted to himself that Edgecomb winced at the mention of the ministry officials, and that Smith scowled and glared down at his hands. Neither of them voiced further protest, as if realising that they'd already signed the contract, made the deal with the devil, and now they could only suffer for their poor choices.</p>
<p>"That being said, it should go without saying (although I will say it anyway) that I expect you to take these sessions seriously. You are attending these meetings hoping to learn how to defend yourselves, and those you care about. I expect all rivalries and childish behaviour to be set aside when you enter this room. We are all allies here. We are in this together. We share a common goal. Remember that. I will not tolerate sabotage or harassment. Do I make myself clear?"</p>
<p>No one moved. They all seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. The only exception, of course, was Ron, who was fidgeting, as if bored. Perhaps, he was.</p>
<p>"Good," Harry said. "There will be a practical part to every lesson, never fear. There will also be some discussion of…various other relevant topics, at least most sessions. We meet once a week. At any time, you can feel free to make suggestions as to what you think needs discussion. I am here to help. Show some restraint around Umbridge, however. Be smart about this."</p>
<p>Neville uttered something gloomy to himself. Harry ignored it for the moment. "Good," he said. "Today, we will practice the Disarming Spell. This will be a nice review for everyone who attended that disastrous Dueling Club in '92."</p>
<p>Justin Finch-Fletchey looked down at his shoes. Ernie Macmillan slouched in his seat, looking rather shifty and itchy. Neither of them would meet Harry's gaze.</p>
<p>"Pair up, everyone," Harry said, clapping his hands. A whistle appeared on an end table, and he sighed, and picked it up, looping it over his head. He'd never used one before, but they had to be pretty straightforward. There were no moving parts, after all.</p>
<p>"Ron, Hermione, do me a favour and watch the door," he said, running a hand through his hair as he stared around the sudden chaos of the room. Hermione glared at him, but did as she was bidden.</p>
<p>He had to make a few circuits of the room to figure out what was even going on. If they had been an army, they would have had to start with team-building, unity-building exercises, which perhaps they should have, regardless. Perhaps, everyone was just a bit overstimulated by the knowledge that they were actively defying the Ministry and Umbridge by participating in this "club". Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four had helped to foster investment in the group.</p>
<p>But, that wouldn't stop Fred-and-George from sabotaging the (admittedly insufferable) Zacharias Smith. Harry reminded them, in no uncertain terms, that they'd promised to refrain from just such behaviour as part of being members of this club. He hadn't had to resort to threatening them with withdrawing his (and Sirius's) financial support for their joke shop, which was something. He didn't <em>want</em> to do that.</p>
<p>Cho seemed rather flustered whenever he walked past, for whatever reason, but when he watched her out of the corner of his eye, she did just fine, so he didn't suppose she needed special treatment. Most people, in fact, were doing just fine with this spell—it was an "easy" spell, that everyone knew, after the Dueling Club. Everyone present was in third year and above, of course, except for Dennis Creevey, who was in second year. Harry avoided the Creevey corner, because they were still quite excitable concerning him (although Colin had cooled down, somewhat). He could tell how they were doing well enough from a distance!</p>
<p>There were those who might think that Luna, with her absent, dreamy demeanour, would be too distracted to cast spells properly. They couldn't be further from the truth. He knew from experience that, while her head was firmly in the clouds, that in no way affected her focus. Anyone who pitted himself against her in battle would underestimate her. She could use that to her advantage. He might have already told her that last year; he wasn't sure. He made a note to tell her again.</p>
<p>It was very tempting to avoid Ginny, and stay at the opposite side of the room when watching her. But, he knew that he'd have to come by, eventually.</p>
<p>It didn't help that she'd partnered up with Luna, perhaps out of pity, or the knowledge that most people avoided Luna. Like Luna, Ginny was engaged in practice with a single-minded focus. Unlike Luna, this was apparent in her (rather fierce) expression, a certain attitude of readiness…and the fact that she didn't turn or acknowledge Harry as he passed (should he be insulted, or relieved that Ginny was this competent?). Luna and Ginny seemed to be about evenly matched in skill.</p>
<p>No one was in the same skill category as Neville. He'd partnered with Susan Bones, whose name Harry only even remembered because she was <em>Amelia</em> Bones's great-niece, the one who'd asked him about his patronus at the Hog's Head. To the extent that Amelia Bones was an even-handed woman, Susan could be said to be likewise. She hadn't jumped to the conclusion that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin in second year, but she hadn't defended him, either. Similarly, now, she was neither going easy on Neville nor taking advantage of his less-than-impressive level of skill.</p>
<p>Harry came over to watch them for several minutes. Then, after a moment's thought, he came to confront Neville.</p>
<p>"I thought you might want some extra help, Neville," he said, with a smile. Neville bowed his head, as if ashamed, as the wand he'd inherited from his father (Harry refused to forget that fact) soared once more from his grasp and into Susan's hand.</p>
<p>"I know I'm not a very good duelist, or…well, good at most things, really," Neville said glumly. "But, I thought…I thought if <em>anyone</em> could make me into a decent fighter like my dad, it would be you, Harry. I just—"</p>
<p>Harry very much wanted to press Neville for more information about his dad (this was the second time he'd mentioned him, even in passing), but instead, he held up a hand to silence Neville, gaze fixed on the door to the Room.</p>
<p>"Susan, if you'd be so kind as to watch the door, and give Ron and Hermione a chance to practise," he said. She blinked, as if startled that he'd even noticed her, but handed over Neville's wand and went to the door without a word.</p>
<p>"That wasn't what I meant at all, Neville," Harry said, with a sigh. "I'm sure you'd be a very great wizard, indeed, if you weren't trying to work with a second-hand wand. Ron was lucky in second year that Malfoy's didn't reject him utterly. Hagrid said that it might be better to use a broken wand than one that hadn't chosen you."</p>
<p>Neville blushed at this high praise, but his gaze remained on his feet. Harry shrugged. There was only so much that you could do.</p>
<p>"Wh-what did you want, then?" he asked, wary as if Harry had just threatened him with an Unforgivable Curse. Harry glanced around the room, to see whether or not anyone was paying attention. Ron and Hermione were, but everyone else was too focused on his own personal battle (excepting Susan, at watch at the door). There was a brief flash of realisation, a hint in the direction of what Neville's problems might be surrounding his parents—if <em>he</em> had been the other potential "child of the prophecy", might his family not have been targeted as Harry's had?—but Harry set this aside, too, for the moment.</p>
<p>"I just have cause to suspect that You-Know-Who might target you, in particular," he said, hands in his pockets. He shrugged, as if it were no big deal. Neville stared at him, mouth agape, wide-eyed. He didn't seem to know how to respond. "I thought that you might require some extra training, on that account. Have you at your best, just in case."</p>
<p>"How—why—what do you mean, he might target me?" Neville demanded. There was an inkling, there, the barest hints of Gryffindor courage. Harry couldn't help approving, despite his association of such courage with Ron's signature recklessness. Or was that <em>because</em> of his association with that and Ron's signature recklessness?</p>
<p>"It's very secret," Harry said. "I don't think I'm supposed to talk about it. Just take my word on this. Our positions might have been reversed, but for a single poor choice on You-Know-Who's part. Your fate lies in his shadow, still. You must have had some sentiment in that direction, or why would you be here?"</p>
<p>"I need to be ready to fight Lestrange," he said. "She's mad, and she—she has it out for me. Don't ask me how I know that, Harry, <em>please</em>. Just…it was bad enough, thinking I just had to get past her—"</p>
<p>Harry cocked his head, studying Neville. "Isn't she You-Know-Who's second-in-command? Said to be second in sadism only to You-Know-Who himself? In fact, don't people disagree on which of them is the more sadistic?" he asked.</p>
<p>This was not helping Neville's nerves at all. He was shaking and hyperventilating, now. Thinking of Ron's superhuman ability to get everyone to like him, Harry took his cues from Ron, and rested a hand on Neville's shoulder, for a moment, before swiftly withdrawing it.</p>
<p>"Sorry, Neville. I didn't mean it that way. I only meant…well, You-Know-Who's not that much bigger of a threat, is he? I'm sure Lestrange sees herself as only his envoy, his deputy. I'm not saying that you'd have to go up against You-Know-Who himself. Only that he might be more likely to send more Death Eaters after you than—" he waved a hand around the room to encompass the rest of the D.A.. "Skill is nothing without practice. If you and I are encompassed in the same role, as Dumbledore believes, than you should be as ready as I for battle. Or, well, as close as you can get with your happier upbringing."</p>
<p>He gave a rueful smile, which Neville returned, shakily. Harry drew the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. "Shall we start, then?" he asked.</p>
<p>"<em>Expelliarmus!</em>" Neville cried, as if following an unspoken cue.</p>
<p>It only took him three tries to disarm Harry, but then, Harry wasn't trying that hard to stop him.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Anyone who felt the need to gather further information concerning Neville's bizarre conglomeration of motley neuroses would hope to be there the afternoon, before Potions class, when Malfoy made the mistake of suggesting that Harry would be carted off to St. Mungo's for brain damage. The way Neville strained even against Ron's attempts to hold him back spoke something of how strongly he felt about Malfoy's words. Why such a strong reaction? Harry wondered.</p>
<p>Perhaps, it had something to do with Neville's reaction, last year, to the use of the Cruciatus Curse in Fake-Moody's class. It was jumping to conclusions, of course, but he knew better than most the power of pain. And, the Cruciatus Curse was refined, undiluted pain. There was no defence against it, and it stretched seconds into eternities. But for his already extensive acquaintance with suffering, Harry would not have been able to work through it. Or, perhaps, it wasn't even only that. Perhaps…the blood of a goddess….</p>
<p>How did the Cruciatus feel to someone without any sort of defences—a mere mortal? Had <em>Neville</em> ever been put under the Cruciatus?</p>
<p>There was no easy way to ask this question, and Harry therefore wrote it down on the list he'd made of "Anomalies: Neville Longbottom". It was written in encoded runes and Harry's own made up symbols, so he doubted that anyone would be stumbling upon his work and translating it anytime soon.</p>
<p>What did he know?:</p>
<p>He knew that Neville was raised by his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, whose choice in fashion was better left undescribed. Classic old woman class, that.</p>
<p>He knew that his parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, had suffered one of many fates-worse-than-death, during, or after, the war. "Better dead than what happened to them", Moody had said. They'd both been aurors, and both members of the Order of the Phoenix—not that Neville seemed to know this. He'd never mentioned the Order to Harry, after all.</p>
<p>He knew that Neville had inherited his father's wand, whatever it was made of, and Harry had spent the past four years telling Neville that the fact that he hadn't chosen his own wand was the reason behind his failure at magic. Ideally, this meant that Neville would try his hardest, and then blame the lack of synchronicity for any further shortcomings on his part, once he'd made the spells work. That, in turn, meant that if he put in the proper effort and study, that if the day ever came when he got his <em>own</em> wand… well, that internalised sense that the only thing holding him back had been a lack of compatibility suggested that Neville would suddenly become…competent, for real. Mind over matter, and all.</p>
<p>When Harry thought about it, he didn't know that much about Neville, or even his upbringing. Raised by his extended family, right? A fairly happy childhood, culminating in his acceptance at Hogwarts, and his reception of the toad named Trevor. That wasn't much to go on. He frowned.</p>
<p>Now, he also knew that Neville reacted badly towards those who mocked the mentally ill. As if he knew someone who was…or was such himself. Far be it for Harry to judge.</p>
<p>But, regardless, in any case, this new fact suggested one further idea to Harry: figuring out Neville's secret might assist him in healing Sirius.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Because Giants Are Evil, Revisited</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hagrid returns.  Really, doesn't the chapter title say enough?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The quidditch match that had banned Harry from quidditch for! life! happened to have coincided with a rainstorm. It took Thor at least half an hour to convince Hermione that he had nothing to do with said rainstorm, but it was hardly his priority. His priority had to be Harry, again. Harry might feign indifference to the entire ordeal, but anyone who knew him knew better.</p>
<p>Fred and George sat in a corner of the Common Room, staring off into space, with Lee Jordan sitting with them, each of them, for once, completely silent. Hermione didn't seem to notice that, for once, there was no need to try to stop them from using first years as guinea pigs for their joke shop products. She did not pay them any heed, not even deigning to glance in their directions.</p>
<p>They seemed somehow diminished, more human, than usual, and, despite that, more sympathetic. Even Thor, despite knowing better, had half a mind to go over there and comfort them on their recent loss. But, he had the sneaking suspicion that they would no more appreciate consolations from him who could still play quidditch than Harry would.</p>
<p>Which left them to current events, Harry sitting at a respectful distance from the fire, despite being sopping wet and dripping, which somehow raised no eyebrows. Well, Thor would scarcely have noted it before third year, and <em>he</em> had cause to. Hermione had somehow always overlooked it, as had Harry himself (although how much was just his own ability for self-deception could not be told).</p>
<p>Harry sat on the sofa, casting an occasional wary glance at the fireplace to his right, and pretending to listen to Hermione's platitudes. Doubtless, this was the best you could expect from him, under any normal circumstances.</p>
<p>He just stared at the table before him, and said nothing, no matter what Hermione said or did to try to garner his attention.</p>
<p>"The fault is mine," Thor announced, at last. "You received detention only because you were attempting to prevent <em>me</em> doing something…stupid. I ought to serve the detention in your stead. As that cannot be done, I… I am not much one for speeches. Thank you, Little Brother. You have saved me from myself, once again. I know not how to repay you, and yet—"</p>
<p>This garnered a response, after a fashion. Harry lifted his gaze to meet Thor's, with a dreary, listless blankness. Thor shivered. He couldn't help a creeping sense of unease. His hands twitched, as if he'd need to hit Harry over the head. Harry had been doing quite well of late, but…this knowledge, being banned from his own form of relaxation, combined with another bout of torture sessions—a <em>month</em>—could not be having the best effects on him.</p>
<p>"This is not your fault," Harry said, in a blank monotone. "I should not have taken Malfoy's bait. And to think that I've chastised <em>you</em> for lack of self-control. Fah. But, if it weren't this, it would have been something else. Umbridge is looking for any excuse. Professor McGonagall said as much. At least there was some satisfaction to be had of this. Still, it will be quite the blow to Angelina. I rather suspect she will disagree with any of our interpretations of events, and place the blame squarely on my shoulders. I think I should speak with Sirius concerning recent events."</p>
<p>"Or Hagrid," Hermione said in a small voice. Harry's gaze whipped over to her, so fast that Thor couldn't help remembering the end of first year. How had he not seen?</p>
<p>"What?" Harry demanded, with sudden force, so that Hermione froze, as if in a spotlight.</p>
<p>"Hagrid?" Thor repeated. "He has been absent all this year. Were it not for Sirius's assurances that he is still well, I would have thought—"</p>
<p>"He's back," Hermione said. "Look! Lights in his cottage!"</p>
<p>"The only good news of this year," said Harry, jumping to his feet. Thor had stood guard by the fireplace, and therefore was still on his feet. Hermione peered out the window at the storm, with a glare that Thor didn't yet understand directed his way, saying briskly. "Well, let's go, then."</p>
<p>And, on the way, she kept up a litany of admonishments that made Thor slowly realise her interpretation of recent events.</p>
<p>Not that he had time to set her straight before their arrival at Hagrid's cabin. Hermione sent him a look that said that she was far from finished, and knocked on the door, causing Fang to start barking. They all knew that Fang was utterly harmless, and Harry started, but then relaxed. Nonetheless, he glanced around, as if Professor Grubbly-Plank or Professor Umbridge might be lurking around the corner, ready to attack the newest threat (that was to say: Hagrid).</p>
<p>Hagrid opened the door, and stood aside to let them in. He was holding something tinged faintly green up to his face, in the hand not holding the door, and his face looked bruised and swollen—what could have happened to him? They'd previously operated under the tacit assumption that Hagrid was impervious to all harm.</p>
<p>"Barely back five minutes and you lot are here to welcome me. Should've known," he said, with a broad grin that looked rather painful with all those scrapes and bruises.</p>
<p>"You're back. Well, as you've been gone for half of a year, you'll need updates on what's going on here at Hogwarts—the new management, a few warnings—" Harry began, sliding into a seat at the table and grabbing his head in both hands. He spared a glance at Thor and Hermione—their cue to sit.</p>
<p>Hermione disregarded this to go set about making tea. To be fair, it was rather cold out. Only Harry was completely unaffected, although…hmm, Hagrid wasn't shivering much. But, he also had a fire going. Thor was <em>almost</em> certain that Harry had cast some sort of cooling charm to stave off some of the heat. He was not about to make demands or complaints, but nor would he bow out, as he had in first year.</p>
<p>Hagrid, meanwhile, had paused in the doorway, the cheer draining from his face. "New—new management?" he repeated, as if he couldn't possibly have heard right.</p>
<p>"Well, you'll have heard what the <em>Prophet</em>'s been writing about Dumbledore and Harry, of course—" Hermione called from the kitchen.</p>
<p>"Well, er, top-secret mission from Dumbledore, and all—had to avoid all mail. Couldn't risk the Death Eaters or the doubters finding me and Madame Maxime," he said.</p>
<p>He didn't know. Harry sighed, and buried his head in his hands. It took him a moment to compose himself, and then he looked back up at Hagrid, wan and exhausted. Before he could speak, Hermione, who was in the kitchen with her back turned to them, said, "Where <em>have</em> you been, Hagrid? You were on a mission for the Order with Madame Maxime, right?" Her tone was almost conversational. Life might have thrown a few too many surprises her way, of late.</p>
<p>"Not so loud!" Harry snapped. "You never know who might be listening—I wouldn't trust Umbridge not to have set up some sort of monitoring spells on Hagrid's cabin. It's the nasty sort of thing she'd do—would want to know just when he returned. She seemed quite keen on that point during Grubbly-Plank's inspection, now didn't she? And, he <em>is</em> a 'dangerous half-breed'—"</p>
<p>"Here, now," Hagrid said, sitting down on a fourth stool, greenish slab of meat still applied to the side of his face. "What's this? Who's Umbridge? What inspections? What are you talking about, now?"</p>
<p>Harry glared at the table before him. There was a moment of silence as he gathered his thoughts, in which even Thor thought to remember that Hagrid was the sort to see the best in everyone (as Thor was, himself), and that he had never yet stood for the idea of anyone doubting the loyalty and benevolence of a Hogwarts professor.</p>
<p>Of course, Umbridge was not a true Hogwarts professor. She was the Lockhart, the Quirrell, of the year. Hagrid had conceded that Quirrell had been untrustworthy, and had despised Lockhart for reasons quite independent of the other's morality, or lack thereof. Harry hadn't told Hagrid about his suspicions concerning the fake-Moody last year, but then, Hagrid <em>had</em> been busy. Regardless, there was some precedence for the "evil Defence Professor" theory that Harry was about to lay out for the fifth time (fourth time accurate, a not-bad record).</p>
<p>"You want to beware Umbridge. She's convinced that anyone who isn't one hundred percent human is both <em>subhuman</em> and dangerous. I suppose she has no house-elves," Harry began, and Hermione turned from her work to glare at him, setting a mug of tea down before Hagrid, and then returned back to the kitchen to get the other mugs. Everyone knew that Hagrid drank only from tankards; no one else touched Hagrid's tea.</p>
<p>Harry's hand, which had migrated to the table when Thor hadn't been looking, clenched into a fist. His jaw, similarly, seemed too tightly clenched for him to speak, but he managed.</p>
<p>"She's a spy for the Ministry, which is on the out with Dumbledore. She's—she's <em>evil</em>, Hagrid. There's no better word for it. And, Fudge has given her the absolute authority to sack anyone she pleases, so you'd best be careful. Fudge is afraid of Dumbledore, thinks he's making waves and building an army to topple the government, and other rubbish. Anyone who speaks in Dumbledore's defence, or is known to be one of his supporters, is under far greater scrutiny, and given your usual choice of curriculum, combined with her 'inspections'—"</p>
<p>"You need to change your curriculum," Hermione said, eyes wide and pleading. "She can't get rid of you, too!"</p>
<p>Everyone knew that Professor Trelawney had made a bad first impression with Umbridge, between her usual airs and her insistence (which Harry had been quick to defend once Umbridge had left, lest <em>his defence of her</em> be held against her) that "the Inner Eye doesn't see on command". Harry had stayed after class to say something-or-other to her, and perhaps whatever he had said had given her some manner of strength, but the entire school knew that she wasn't faring well. Umbridge would take the first opportunity present to evict her from the castle. Her recent lessons, attended by the lurking shadow of Umbridge, had not been much better than that first which Umbridge had attended.</p>
<p>Harry had told them, repeatedly, that Professor Trelawney was well-educated on the subject, at the very least, and Harry, Hermione, and Thor all knew of her two prophecies (<em>two to which there was a witness to put the prophecy on record</em>, Harry corrected him), which was enough to qualify her as a true seer.</p>
<p>Trelawney's imminent dismissal might have been what Hermione had been talking about, or she might have been speaking of Harry's recent ban from quidditch, her efforts to usurp Dumbledore's position of headmaster, or that she couldn't <em>evict</em> him in addition to whatever other horrors she had planned for Hagrid's examination. Or possibly, all of the above.</p>
<p>Thor stood from his usual seat at the table, abandoning the tea Hermione had made to come around the table to reassure her. It was possible that it was a mistake not to attempt to rein Harry in, instead, but Thor recognised that he could only do so much. Harry was unpredictable, and would doubtless resent any attempts to calm him down. Between Hedwig's recent injury, the quidditch ban, and, of course, the detentions, Harry had no shortage of justification for his ire.</p>
<p>Thor let it pass. Unfortunately, Hermione was also not in the mood to be placated. She shot him a glare, and he stood beside her chair as a silent show of support. Whatever he <em>could</em> do.</p>
<p>As if prompted by Thor's recent thoughts, Harry cut across Hermione, again. Perhaps, as Thor was loath to admit, it was because Harry recognised a lost cause when he saw one. Hagrid could no more be prevailed upon to change his syllabus than he could to publicly denounce Dumbledore, and neither would do much good. Umbridge already knew, and she would twist events beyond recognition to get her way.</p>
<p>"Professor Grubbly-Plank first showed up last year, when you were…sulking," Harry said. "What do you know of her? <em>Umbridge</em> hurt Hedwig's wing intercepting my mail, and you were absent, so I gave her into Grubbly-Plank's care. Was that a mistake, do you suppose? You must have trusted her some, to let her teach in your place."</p>
<p>Hermione turned her glare on Harry, who, as usual, didn't <em>seem</em> to notice, but did. He was much better at pretending not to be affected after…whatever had changed, last year. If Thor hadn't been watching to ensure that he didn't need to hit Harry over the head, he doubtless would not have noticed at all. That…was a sobering thought.</p>
<p>(No pun intended. He was staying sober until he reached legal drinking age. Unless Harry died for real before then.)</p>
<p>Thor didn't look at her, but he wrapt an arm around her, as if it were even possible to transfuse strength. If it were, it was the sort of thing that Harry would know how to do better than he.</p>
<p>"Eh, Willie's known for being good with all kinds of creatures—works at one of them preserves when she'd not subbing here. She's got all that—whaddaya call it?—vet training. I wouldn't worry none about Hedwig. Bit low to be attacking your pet owl, though, Harry. Sorry to hear what's been going on while I've been gone."</p>
<p>"Where did you <em>go</em>?" Hermione cut in, shaking off Thor's arm. She was clearly not in the mood to be placated, but he didn't leave her side. S.P.E.W. ensured she got less sleep than she should, although the knowledge that Dobby had been taking all of the clothes she made had given her pause. Umbridge was draining everyone's willpower. And, Hermione was prone to hysteria concerning exams—and this was O.W.L. year. She <em>might</em> need his support more than Harry.</p>
<p>He would not have thought this, had he known in what direction the conversation was heading.</p>
<p>"Dumbledore sent me off soon after end of term," Hagrid began. "Remember what he said at the Hospital Wing? That about 'sending envoys to the giants'? That's what he said, right? Think that's what Dumbledore said when he was giving me the mission, anyway. Something about how he'd suggested doing this to Fudge, but the Minister had balked—didn't have the guts. Always knew he was a coward; Wizarding World's as good as conquered if he has his way. Anyway, Olympe (that's Madame Maxime) and I are half-giants, so we stood the best chances at talking to them, and surviving."</p>
<p>Thor changed his mind. If this tale was going to be all about giants, then he was probably better used watching Harry. A glance in Harry's direction showed that his fists were clenched tightly, his tea was untouched, and his face was carefully blank. Not quite the situation for vaulting over tables, yet.</p>
<p>Not when he could walk around the side, which he did, as Hagrid, who was less aware of the current prevailing atmosphere than Thor, who <em>usually</em> knew when to take a step back, even if that attempt often failed, continued with what seemed a description of giants consistent with what Thor had heard from Mum and Dad, growing up the second time around.</p>
<p>Which also bore some resemblance to the tales they'd both grown up hearing about…ah. Well, that certainly explained some things. It could not have been clearer that Harry was half-inclined to make his usual "but you don't know that" speech. At some point, he must have come to the conclusion that conclusions couldn't be reached.</p>
<p>"There aren't that many of them left, of course. Hunted down by the respective governments where they lived. 'Course, there was reason for that—brutish and violent they are. They might have been driven into the Alps by us wizards, but its mostly been them killing each other off. Population's dwindled more since they've gone into hiding than during the entire war it took for them to retreat there."</p>
<p>Hermione muttered something about "cabin fever", and glanced at Harry, who was glaring holes into the table. He was making a visible effort to regain control of himself, and Thor was reminded that, for whatever reason, Harry's temper seemed much closer to the surface than it usually was. Perhaps, it was the fact that all of his supports seemed to be being removed from beneath him.</p>
<p>"Did you look for your mother?" Harry demanded, with the sort of tact that people usually associated more with Thor than…Harry.</p>
<p>Hagrid clearly hadn't been expecting such a response, or question.</p>
<p>"Died," he said. "Decades ago. It's a violent place in there—"</p>
<p>"I suppose even a mountain range wouldn't be a very big area for giants," Harry said, sounding pensive, but still taut as the string of a bow. He seemed incapable of motion.</p>
<p>"Well…there aren't that many left, as I said," Hagrid repeated. "They're all just in the one cave, now—"</p>
<p>"But, <em>you're</em> not violent or vicious," Harry said. "There must have been some sort of kindness and gentleness in her, or your father would never have paid your mother any mind."</p>
<p>"Little brother," Thor said, an attempt at a warning. He rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. The tension of Harry's form was almost a physical covering, like…armour. They were approaching the point where just about anyone would wonder why Harry seemed to be taking this story so personally.</p>
<p>Harry's gaze fell to the table. He slumped, bracing his hand against it. He glanced askance at Thor, but with a thoroughly unreadable expression. Were it not for what Harry had said about the irrelevance of the Rules of Invocation, a few months ago, back at Grimmauld Place, he would have thought that he was dealing with <em>Loki</em> again.</p>
<p>And, he <em>was</em>, however….</p>
<p>Thor was not one much given for deep ponderings about the nature of the world, or of souls. But, Harry was a mystery; this could not be denied.</p>
<p>Hagrid was nonplussed, and missed the entire exchange. "Well, I suppose she could be decent sometimes, but you read Skeeter's article—everyone in Britain was terrified of her. And, I know giants are vicious. Olympe and me saw it ourselves, plenty, when we tried to go in amongst them. They're always fighting amongst themselves, even though there's so few left. Pick on any one of them as seems weak enough for it to be fun for them. Lot of bullies. Don't mean they don't appreciate anything other than violence, 'course."</p>
<p>Harry had elected to keep silent for the rest of the tale. He stared at his tea, as if uncertain that it weren't poisoned. Encouraged by Harry's silence, Hagrid launched into the tale with enthusiasm, laying out their almost-success with the leader of the giants, the coup that had ensued the next night, how the Death Eaters had succeeded in winning over the new chieftain. Madame Maxime and Hagrid had had to flee.</p>
<p>"Where did you get those bruises from, Hagrid?" asked Hermione, with an apologetic look in Harry's direction. One that he completely missed, glaring as he was at his mug of tea.</p>
<p>"Encountered some less-than-friendly creatures on the way home. Not giants," he added, with suspicious swiftness. Hagrid was almost as bad of a liar as Thor, and they had some of the same weaknesses in that area. Thor knew that Harry noticed, even without whatever sense Harry seemed to have of when people were lying.</p>
<p>But, before Harry could press Hagrid, boxing him in until he was forced to tell them the truth, there came a knock on the door, and Harry stiffened, glancing from the door back to Hagrid.</p>
<p>"Why do I suspect that that is not Professor Grubbly-Plank coming to hand back over to Hagrid," Harry asked, with a familiar false levity. Thor strongly considered the merits of knocking Harry unconscious ("cognitive recalibration", as Natasha had called it). It almost seemed merely an integral step in maintaining stability in cosmic order. But, Harry was not a god—his mental health probably had no effect on the cosmos as a whole.</p>
<p>"We should hide!" Hermione hissed.</p>
<p>"Why?" asked Harry. "We've done nothing wrong. She already knows that Hagrid is a friend of ours, and don't forget that it was snowing when we arrived. Perhaps, we can prevent…<em>mistakes</em> being made."</p>
<p>"Perhaps, <em>you</em> can <em>make</em> some mistakes, more like!" Hermione snapped, glaring at him.</p>
<p>"There are more important things than winning the House Cup, this year," Harry said, nodding to himself, as Hagrid went to answer the door, glancing back over his shoulder at the three of them.</p>
<p>This was a disaster waiting to happen, but doubtless less of one than if Harry had been expected to remain hidden and silent under the invisibility cloak.</p>
<p>Sure enough, when the door opened, in walked Umbridge, nose in the air, with a haughtiness that made her look somehow even more deformed than usual.</p>
<p>"Ah, Rubeus Hagrid, I presume?" she asked, with a glance over at the three of them, standing or sitting around the table. Thor thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch into a smile at recognising their presence. That couldn't be good.</p>
<p>"Er, not to be rude, but who the ruddy hell are you?" asked Hagrid. Thor winced, and Harry sent him a look that was <em>almost</em> a smile.</p>
<p>Oh. <em>Now</em>, Loki's incessant reprimands made a bit more sense. But, he had <em>a little</em> subtlety. Hagrid had none. It was impressive, if you thought about it, and made Hagrid much more the sort of person that Thor could appreciate, but it didn't serve any of them, here.</p>
<p>"That's <em>Professor</em> Umbridge," Harry said, voice dripping with exaggerated respect. Hagrid's mouth might have twitched upwards a bit, before the corners pulled down. He hadn't forgotten the horror stories Harry had begun this reunion with. "New Defence professor, and all."</p>
<p>Umbridge must have attended Hogwarts, right? Then, surely she knew who Hagrid was. He'd been a fixture of Hogwarts for over fifty years.</p>
<p>"Where have you been, if I may ask?" she asked, with her nauseatingly sweet, syrupy voice.</p>
<p>"Er—Out hiking. For my health. Fresh air, you know."</p>
<p>Thor was fairly sure that even he wasn't <em>that</em> bad at making up a cover story.</p>
<p>"I see," said Umbridge, with her predatory smile. Harry <em>shuddered</em>. Visibly.</p>
<p><em>Show no weakness.</em> Thor's hand was still on Harry's shoulder, as if he could lend Harry the fortitude he'd need to get through this confrontation, so soon after Hagrid's distressing tale.</p>
<p>"As gamekeeper, fresh air must be so hard to come by."</p>
<p>"Ah, well, you know, change of scenery—"</p>
<p>"Hagrid doesn't have to share the details of his love life with <em>you</em>, Professor, no matter how powerful you are," Harry snapped, glowering at her, full force. He seemed to have injected all that suppressed anger of the past hour into that glare.</p>
<p>Umbridge gave a little shriek, and took a step back. For one thing, she'd been pretending that Harry, Hermione, and Thor weren't there. For another, she was disgusted at the thought of someone like Hagrid even <em>having</em> a girlfriend.</p>
<p>"I hadn't thought that you were the type for spreading salacious gossip," Harry mused. "Clearly, I was wrong. Still, that doesn't mean that you're entitled to know—"</p>
<p>"Silence, Mr. Potter! Twenty points from gryffindor!"</p>
<p>Harry seemed unperturbed by this announcement. He'd derailed Umbridge's line of inquisition, and was content to leave it at that.</p>
<p>"Leave, Mr. Potter! Right this instant!" she shrieked, purpling with rage.</p>
<p>Harry raised an eyebrow, and at last took a sip of very cold tea.</p>
<p>"This isn't your house," he said, voice very mild. "And, I'd like to drink the tea Hermione took the trouble of making, if it's all the same to you."</p>
<p>He nodded at Hermione, and Umbridge's lips curled, once more, in disgust. Ah. Because Hermione was a muggleborn. Thor took a step forwards, but Harry had already turned around to grab hold of his upper arm, to keep him from making any sort of mistakes born of the need to defend Hermione's honour…and Hagrid's.</p>
<p>Hermione was staring at her empty mug, forlorn.</p>
<p>"Very well," said Umbridge, sticking her nose in the air, again. "We shall discuss this more, later. As High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, I have been given the authority to inspect my fellow professors. Perhaps, these three…<em>students</em> told you about that. I shall be inspecting your next class. Good day to you."</p>
<p>She turned around, and swept out of the room.</p>
<p>"Don't worry," Harry said. "She's even worse with prolonged exposure."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Role Reversal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry makes an alliance of sorts in slytherin.  Ginny convinces Harry to give her special instruction.  And, how that first lesson goes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wow.  Okay, so somehow I managed to never post this?  It's here, now.  Ooops.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Umbridge was as bad as her word. She showed up, belatedly, several minutes into Hagrid's first class, which Hagrid had decided to hold in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione had moaned at the thought of Hagrid bringing them into the forest for the lesson—that couldn't possibly bode well. Plenty of dangerous things lived in the forest. And the centaurs. Harry had to remember to have a word with them.</p><p>In the meantime…Umbridge was being her own, signature brand of nasty. Hagrid was a bit thrown by her abrupt appearance (or perhaps merely her tardiness). He lost his train of thought, forgot what he'd been speaking of. The class had been going well, too. True, the Divination students had been alarmed at the proximity of a "death omen", but they'd warmed up to the topic.</p><p>Harry had been friendly enough every time the carriages had taken them to and from the castle for the thestrals to recognise him. One of them turned to face him, when they first entered the clearing, but had then promptly dismissed him.</p><p>Ron couldn't have made it clearer that he was thinking, still, in the "thestrals are death omens" mindset, and the acknowledgement that they paid Harry, slight though it was, was enough for Ron to tense, and watch him thrice as diligently as before. Mother hen, he was. To think he'd been being <em>better</em> about that. That was before Umbridge.</p><p>Ron was too preoccupied to realise that he shouldn't raise his hand when Hagrid, regaining his equilibrium, asked who among them could see thestrals. Hagrid seemed taken aback, and everyone turned to face them. Harry facepalmed. Other than Ron, Harry, and Neville, only one person raised his hand—some slytherin boy that Harry didn't know, and who, therefore, was amongst those slytherins-who-might-not-be-evil.</p><p>Even <em>Ron</em> seemed appalled when Umbridge demanded to know whom Neville had seen die. She sent a glance in Ron's direction as she did, as if to say <em>you're next.</em></p><p>Neville was, understandably, hesitant to answer her question, shifting—no, <em>squirming</em>—where he stood. Umbridge deliberately misinterpreted this as being a sign that Neville was intimidated by Hagrid. Harry glared daggers at her. He was still trying to think of a punishment sufficient for her sins. The idea of having her write lines with her awful quill, night after night, the words "<em>I must not tell lies</em>" seemed, if insufficient, nevertheless a tempting start.</p><p>Neville was duly horrified at her interpretation of his nervousness, and tried to explain to Umbridge that he wasn't intimidated by <em>Hagrid</em>, he just—</p><p>"He's consumed by awe at your overwhelming presence," Harry said, taking pity on Neville. "I suppose, in your words, that would mean that he was <em>frightened</em> of you."</p><p>He already had detention until the holidays started. Thus, he ignored Hermione's attempts to silence him without using magic.</p><p>"Ah, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said, a smirk emphasising the broad flap of her lips as she smiled. It was, in short, hideous. "What are your opinions on this class and professor, I wonder. Oho, I forgot that I saw you at his—<em>house</em> the other day. I do hope that he's not giving you preferential treatment because you're one of his 'friends'. We can't have a <em>professor</em> showing such underhanded biases."</p><p>She had not, of course, said anything of the sort to Professor Snape, even though he was renowned for just those.</p><p>"I pay attention in class, and do well enough to pass. Perhaps, you should have an idea of my level of competence in the subject before you jump to conclusions, quite excusably, I'm sure, about bias."</p><p>Umbridge must not have understood what he said, or was back to being determined to ignore him, for she returned her attention to Hagrid. Everyone seemed to have forgotten Ron's raised hand, which was a relief, although it was too early to relax.</p><p>"Are you aware that the Ministry has classified thestrals as extremely dangerous and illegal?" Umbridge demanded now.</p><p>Harry looked down at his shoes, not even daring to hope that this was a recent addendum to the laws, or an outright fabrication (couched in a question as it was, his lie-detection had trouble isolating its verity, or lack thereof).</p><p>"Well, er—" said Hagrid, and Harry wished that he could stomp on his foot, or something, to silence him, as he <em>might</em> be able to silence Ron.</p><p>Hagrid glanced around the clearing. "They're not dangerous," he said, as if receiving his second wind. "I mean, sure, they can defend themselves. But, so can any animal when it feels threatened," he added, with a nervous chuckle that Umbridge determined to interpret as "showing pleasure at the thoughts of violence". Harry grit his teeth and tried not to intervene a second time. She <em>must</em> know that she was goading him, by extension.</p><p>"No!" Hagrid protested. "I mean, a dog will bite you if you provoke it, see, and they're not considered dangerous—"</p><p>What was that he felt in his right hand? A building sort of tingling, like the charge of a—</p><p>He rounded on Ron. "I thought you had <em>control</em> of this," he hissed. "Get a hold of yourself before you set the clearing ablaze!"</p><p>Hermione seemed to understand the problem, for she stopped muttering about what a repulsive, evil hag Umbridge was, and came over to them, wide-eyed, and took Ron's hand, wincing in pain as she did. The added incentive brought Ron back to himself. Harry was just glad that everyone's attention was focused elsewhere.</p><p>Meanwhile, Umbridge had moved on. As had Hagrid, who was explaining to them about how this was the first domesticated herd in Britain, and how smart and capable they were. They only had to go to a place once to know the way to return (presumably, this didn't count if they were drugged, or unconscious, for the trip). They could carry heavy loads, and fly for long periods of time at high speeds. In fact, Dumbledore himself had been known to use them.</p><p>Five minutes and several rude interruptions later, Umbridge decided to switch tactics, wandering amongst the students to ask rather rude and insensitive questions, trying to provoke a reaction out of Harry.</p><p>(Harry would have murdered Umbridge by the end of it, had he only known of a way; she'd surpassed Malfoy on his list of people most needing assassination awhile ago, but now she'd outstripped <em>Riddle</em>, who at least kept to himself for most of the year before trying to murder Harry at the end. Nor had he ever yet dragged Harry's friends into the mix, as Malfoy and Umbridge <em>would</em>.)</p><p>Harry glanced over at Ron, and released his arm, surprised to find that he thought that Hermione could handle the problem on her own. Perhaps, she did a better job of keeping Ron in line than Harry'd ever been able to.</p><p>Harry wandered over to the slytherin of before, and peered around the clearing. He didn't bother glancing at the boy as he spoke. "Hello. I don't think we've been introduced. I'm sure you know by now that I'm Harry Potter. What's your name?"</p><p>Malfoy glared over in their direction, and returned his attention to Umbridge. Pansy Parkinson, hanging on his arm, and giggling, completely missed this, continuing to fill Umbridge's ears with slander.</p><p>The slytherin gave him a very bored expression, as if his answer was given only because he had nothing better to do than to exchange pleasantries. This was a breath of fresh air.</p><p>"Blaise Zabini," he said.</p><p>"You're in my year, but not one of Malfoy's cronies. And, your parents aren't Death Eaters, either. Are you one of those slytherins who thinks that blood is the only thing that matters?"</p><p>Zabini glanced over at Umbridge. "Your giant friend knows what he's talking about, or I'd have switched classes," he conceded. "And that—friend of yours. Everyone knows she's the brightest student of our year.</p><p>"I have a slytherin personality, you would say. Doesn't mean I agree with all the old man's ideas. Anyone who takes the would-be slytherin overlord down a few pegs closer to the rest of us is okay in my book. That's your friend—that Granger. She's one of the people that old man Slughorn would have liked, and he was the head of Slytherin House before our esteemed Professor Snape."</p><p>It was the most Harry had ever heard him say at once. Then again, he wasn't sure he'd ever heard the boy speak at all.</p><p>"Do you know any other slytherins who feel the same as you do?" he asked. He considered mentioning the D.A., but decided that it was too early for that.</p><p>"Most of the girls do," said Zabini. "Why do you think Parkinson spends all her time with Malfoy? I don't think she <em>has</em> any other friends. Not that we do friends in Slytherin House, per se…."</p><p>Harry smiled, and held out a hand, still studying the clearing, keeping an eye on Umbridge and Malfoy rather than glancing at Zabini. "Would you be willing to introduce us, and be…allies?" he asked. "No immediate answers necessary, but you should be aware that we're fighting both the Ministry, and You-Know-Who."</p><p>There was a moment wherein Zabini seemed to be at a loss for words. He reached out, with a hasty glance around the clearing, and shook Harry's hand. "That is somehow both the most slytherin thing I've seen anyone do, and the most gryffindor, at the same time."</p><p>Harry smiled. "I'm unique," he agreed, and wandered back to Hermione and Ron with an offhand wave.</p>
<hr/><p>Ginny accosted him as he was making his way back from the Owlery. He'd been avoiding visiting Hedwig all this year, only in the hopes of protecting her from Umbridge, and the moment he'd violated that precaution, see what had happened! He'd returned to visiting her on a weekly basis.</p><p>Krum seemed to appreciate Hedwig's majesty and mastery of flight, at any rate. His most recent letter had expressed a certain amount of outrage and regret that one of his letters had aroused the Ministry's suspicion enough for them to harm Hedwig. Harry knew to make sure that he confirmed that Krum was in no way responsible in his next letter.</p><p>He was thinking of how far he was overextending himself, trying to build a network of allies (Stark, Krum, Delacour, and now Zabini), when he very nearly ran into someone, which might well have been her intention.</p><p>"I need to talk to you," Ginny said, hands on her hips in a stance that Harry had seen a hundred times on her mother. Whoa. "Don't make me hex you."</p><p>He swallowed the response to the effect of "I'd like to see you try". He was trying to work on his arrogance. He'd even told her that; she had the knowledge to call him out on it.</p><p>He looked down at his shoes. "I'm sure I'm at your disposal," he said, trying for gallant chivalry. He was, after all, a gryffindor.</p><p>"You've been <em>avoiding</em> me," Ginny said, practically sparking with her indignation. She and Ron were definitely sort-of related. She pointed at him, and, whether on accident, or deliberately, said pointing ended by poking him in the chest. He stumbled back a step before regaining his footing. He cocked his head, not completely clear what was going on, or what her motives were.</p><p>"'Avoiding'?" he repeated, tilting his head to the other side. This was her prompt to continue, and did she ever take it.</p><p>"Yes!" she shouted, despite the fact that they were in the middle of a very public place. He glanced around, as if expecting to see the corridor filled with people with their heads sticking out of doors.</p><p>He stuck his hands in the pockets of his cloak, which was about as satisfying as sticking them in the pockets of his jeans (i.e.: not at all). "Did you think I didn't notice? Every meeting at—" she lowered her voice, "—at the D.A., you spend time with every other group practising, and you give Neville individual instruction, but no matter <em>whom</em> I work with, you <em>always</em> avoid my group. Hell, you've even helped <em>Colin Creevey</em>, your stalker fanboy! What have <em>I</em> done?"</p><p>This was a very surreal experience to be having. He hadn't forgotten his deplorable behaviour prior to Ginny's first year. (And was it responsible, to some extent, for Ginny's suffering, her trust in the Diary, that <em>listened</em> to her?) To have Ginny turn around, and accuse <em>him</em> of avoiding <em>her</em>….</p><p>"I—" he began, unsure of what he ought to say. Which was just as well, as Ginny wasn't done with him, yet.</p><p>"I <em>demand</em> that you make it up," she said. "I didn't come to the class just for the lovely company."</p><p>"Well," he said, and then faltered. "You've always been on top of all of the spells—thus far, at least. You didn't seem to need any extra attention. And, I—I couldn't afford the distraction."</p><p>He probably owed her that much of an explanation, at least. He remembered all the insecurities her behaviour had awakened within him, before second year.</p><p>He was, perhaps, being <em>too</em> honest with her.</p><p>"You're right," he hastened to add. "I do owe you. I'm not sure what further instruction you require; I shall have to think about it."</p><p>Ginny was a step behind, but mostly also keeping up. "<em>Distraction</em>?" she demanded. "<em>I'm</em> a distraction? It's not like I set everything on fire, as Ron used to, back when he still had his fits of accidental magic."</p><p>Harry winced, despite himself. Accidental magic. Right. And, of course, she'd had to use <em>Ron</em> as an example. He bit his tongue to keep from telling her that that was <em>not</em> accidental magic. Why did this all have to be so difficult?</p><p>"And now, you're trying to ignore me!" she cried, throwing her hands in the air. "What did I ever do to you?"</p><p>"I'm not—"</p><p>"Look, Harry. You make sure that Ron and Hermione are up-to-speed on combat and strategy—don't deny it; did you think I didn't notice? If R—Riddle's going after the people you care about, don't <em>I</em> need protecting, too? Or—" she faltered, here. "Or aren't we friends?" Her voice wavered and warbled, and she looked as if she were on the verge of tears. A passing ravenclaw sixth year girl glared at him on her way to class.</p><p>His gaze snapped up, despite his intentions, to meet Ginny's. "That isn't what—I don't—come now, Ginny, you must see that Umbridge is going after anyone even <em>associated</em> with me—"</p><p>"But, you'll go making friends with slytherins? The rival house is worth more of your time than your friends?"</p><p>"I don't <em>care</em> about them!" he snapped, at the end of his tether, which he seemed to be most of the time, anymore. "I said that I'd teach you whatever I could think of. You're right, I understand, I shouldn't have avoided you Only, I had to concentrate on what I was teaching, myself, and that's <em>very</em> difficult to do with you around."</p><p>Ginny blinked as if she wasn't entirely sure what she'd just heard. Harry glanced around, to see just who might have been listening. The corridor was mercifully empty, but for them.</p><p>"Harry—" Ginny began, voice much softer, regretful. Harry snapped his fingers.</p><p>"I've got it. Meet me by the birch tree at the Black Lake, Friday night at midnight," he said. He turned to go, and then considered that that might still be considered ignoring her. "I'm sorry for avoiding you," he said, giving her a little bow. "Please, don't take it personally."</p><p>Ginny sighed, and folded her arms. He just didn't get it.</p>
<hr/><p>Friday night was the night after Stephen's visits, which always served as some reassurance for everyone involved, bar Stephen. Ginny still wanted to have something to do with him in the future. He'd just have to see how this all went.</p><p>Ginny started when he stepped out from under the old birch tree by the lake, and he rolled his eyes. Then, he bowed his head. He was used to battle-hardened warriors. Perhaps, he was too hasty to judge Ginny. She was out, late at night, after curfew. Had she even ever snuck out after dark before?</p><p>"Hello, Ginny," he said, with a smile that went unnoticed by her, who did not have his night vision. "Good to see that you aren't late. I'm sorry to have alarmed you. It's only Harry Houdini," he said.</p><p>Ginny bowed her head, and said nothing. She was probably tired of that reference.</p><p>"A warning: before we begin, I need to try a spell on you. It's one of my own making, a modification, I hope, of the spell you've heard me use before—the Star Preserver Spell."</p><p>"You're using me as a guinea pig?" she asked, sounding a bit ragged. Clearly, she was too tired to get worked up that easily, even by such an alarming prospect.</p><p>"Well, I can't use myself," Harry said, with a shrug. "And, we're headed into dangerous territory. I need you to be at your most prepared, at your very strongest. You're my assistant, now. And, there are a few things I've been meaning to do for a while, now. I need to arrange a meeting with the centaurs, and…well, you'll see. But, I don't want to go into the Forest without you properly prepared to defend yourself."</p><p>Ginny's eyes widened. "'<em>Into the Forest'</em>?" she repeated. "Harry, that's dangerous. The professors will kill us if thay find out we went there—"</p><p>Harry shrugged, drawing his wand from its holster. He was still wearing his Hogwarts robes.</p><p>"Come now, Ginny, my dear. What is danger, next to preparing the world as best we can for the coming war? Everything is dangerous, now. Don't you trust me to help protect you?"</p><p>Ginny turned an interesting uniform red at this, and Harry smirked. Well, <em>that</em> had silenced her.</p><p>"Let's see, here. S<em>tellas serva</em>!" he cried, pointing at Ginny. Something leaked from his wand in foggy wisps. Energy flooded Ginny, her heart racing. She felt more awake than she'd ever been in her <em>life</em>, and ready for anything. <em>How</em>—?</p><p>"Now, try to cast a spell," Harry said. "Something weak, and not very dangerous. Let's see how it-"</p><p>"<em>Expelliarmus</em>!" Ginny cried, pointing at Harry. Harry somehow managed to keep hold of the wand held tight in his hand, even as he was thrown back into the tree.</p><p>"…That kind of hurt," he conceded, as Ginny stood there, aghast, for a moment. She seemed to be trying to stuff her entire fist into her mouth—even <em>she</em> wasn't sure.</p><p>A moment later, her actions registered, and she threw her curst wand aside, running over to Harry, to help him up, and make sure she hadn't hurt him too badly.</p><p>Never before had it occurred to her that Harry could be injured. He'd always seemed…well, invincible. Not larger than life, not the hero who could go through a network of underground tunnels filled with monsters and emerge as pristine as he'd entered. More as if he were made of steel. Never before had it occurred to Ginny that <em>she</em> could hurt him.</p><p>She was faintly aware that she was crying, mostly by the way it obstructed her vision, as she reached out for him, to attempt to haul him up.</p><p>His left hand was at his head. He glanced at it in the faint light of the moon. There was a thin patch of blood there, which Ginny couldn't see on account of poor lighting, but which Harry could. Ginny, he decided, was not to know.</p><p>He pushed himself against the tree to try to lever himself up, and became aware of Ginny pulling on his arms, trying to raise him to his feet. He managed to stow his wand back in its holster, and let Ginny help him back up. Humbling. Okay, that had worked better than expected.</p><p>"Not your fault," he murmured. "…Should have warned you. Supercharges all of your spells, see. You probably don't have any experience controlling how much energy you put into any spells…wouldn't know how to dampen them a bit, if you don't want to use too much energy at once. Good skill to have, a bit advanced, but you're on top of everything else, so maybe I could give you a bit of a lesson, instead of what we were going to do, tonight. Here, now, don't <em>cry</em>, Ginny."</p><p>"You're being nice to me, again," she sniffed.</p><p>He leant back against the tree, for support, and pulled Ginny back with him. She squeaked, as if startled, and then blushed, and then glared at him. He saw the thought occur to her that he probably couldn't make out her glare, and she tried to pull back, to cross her arms into a pout, but he wrapt an arm around her back, much diminishing her flexibility.</p><p>"Sorry. I know I'm not very good at offering assurance." He sighed. "I'm fine, Ginny. Nothing to worry about," he insisted, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He could feel her heart pounding-she'd been terrified on his account, hadn't she? The only thing he could think of to do was to rub circles into her back. There was something about circles, and how they were a soothing shape-he didn't know all the study behind it. He just hoped he wasn't overstepping some sort of bound.</p><p>Ginny slowly seemed to calm down, returning her to what was almost her previous fatigue. She gave a sleepy sigh, as if unaware of where she was. He <em>had</em> made her wake up in the middle of the night, and perhaps recent excitement was too much for her. But, she was calm, now. A strange sort of calm flooded <em>him</em>, even though he knew it wasn't right to take advantage of Ginny's fatigue. He slowly pushed her away, as gently as he could.</p><p>"I think we ought to return to testing that spell," he said, trying to act as if nothing had happened. "Ginny, you should-"</p><p>"I don't get you, Harry," Ginny whined. "Didn't you feel what I felt, just now? How can you just go back to what we were doing? You're so-so <em>focused</em>." She spat the word as if it were a curse. But, she glanced around the forest's edge, as if for inspiration. She was not all single-minded focus, as he was.</p><p>He sighed, following her gaze around the edge of the forest. "Try using the levitation spell on a tree," he said, as if she hadn't said anything. He didn't know what to say to her. "Swish and flick, remember? You can control how much power you put into any given spell. If you slow down your casting, you might become more aware of how much power you're injecting into it."</p><p>"You're really okay?" she asked, turning back to look at him again, eyes shining with tears. Great. He'd made her cry again. It didn't help that every time he spoke to her, she seemed to be following, not just her own, different script, but a <em>different</em> script from the previous time.</p><p>"I'm fine, Ginny. Absolutely no harm done." If you ignored the blood trying to trickle down his forehead. Who knew that trees were that <em>solid</em>?</p><p>"You only say you're fine when you're not," Ginny sniffed.</p><p>With yet another sigh, he walked over to stand next to her, enfolding her in a very awkward hug. She was about as tall as he, which was galling. At least he didn't have to look <em>up</em> at her to see her expression. He knew how to conjure tissues, now, however. That was something.</p><p>He reached up his (shaking) hand, hesitated, considered backing down, and then caught his own thoughts. By no stretch of the imagination could comforting Ginny be considered as intimidating an experience as fighting Riddle, even. And, if he didn't do <em>something</em>, at <em>some</em> point, she'd go off with Neville, or Dean, or someone, and he'd lose her. Pretending that he didn't care would cost him in the end.</p><p>"My injuries are quite minor, Ginny dear," Harry said, in his most infuriatingly casual voice. "Are you going to make my <em>immense</em> suffering be for naught, or will you learn how to control this?"</p><p>Ginny squeaked, and straightened up, effectively guilt-tripped. There was no sense of accomplishment to this. He wavered a second, trying to work up his gryffindor courage, and then gave it up for a lost cause.</p><p>"…Here," he said, at last. "Join me when you're ready." And, he handed it over, cursing his own cowardice as he did.</p><p>Ginny came over, quite unaware of his thoughts, and managed to follow his finger pointing along the tree line.</p><p>"Pick one, and try to move <em>only one</em> of its branches. The levitation spell. I'm sure you know that one, by now. Slow down your movements, and pay attention to what happens as you cast the spell. You'll probably feel energy start to build, or move down your arms. You need to reduce <em>how much</em>."</p><p>Ginny bit her lip, and then narrowed her eyes, straightening up, throwing back her head and staring the tree down. Sadly, as it had no eyes, there was no competition for a staring contest.</p><p>"<em>Wingardium leviosa</em>!" she cried, and there was a moment (his eyes widened as he realised what she was doing) when she tried to dam up that energy, so that only a small amount came through in the cast spell. <em>That</em> could harm <em>her.</em></p><p>With a sudden appreciation for Ollivander, who must have honed his seventh sense alarming well, he wrenched the wand out of her hand, drawing the excess energy into his hand. Irrationally enough, he was angry with <em>her</em>, although she had no way of knowing just how stupid that move was, even had it been deliberate, rather than an automatic response.</p><p>"Agh! You are an <em>idiot</em>," he said, throwing his hands into the air. He wasn't entirely sure whether he meant Ginny or he, himself, but Ginny took his meaning to be the former. He could tell in the way that she huffed, shaking her head, and crossed her arms. "Look, Ginny, once the energy has reached your wand, the <em>best</em> you can hope for from trying to restrain it is for your wand to take the strain of trying to hold that energy back, which might well destroy the core, and thus the wand itself. It could have hurt you!"</p><p>"I'm fine," she said, with a grin.</p><p>She and Ron were definitely sort-of related. How else could she make light of this?</p><p>"You need to isolate it <em>before</em> it reaches the wand. Don't try to restrain it once it's there."</p><p>Ginny cocked her head, and then looked down at her shoes through narrowed eyes. "Okay. I think I've got it."</p><p>"<em>Wingardium leviosa</em>!" she cried, pointing at the same tree as before. Despite her words, the tree strained to lift itself from the ground, roots and all. Harry hadn't previously realised how thoroughly the Star Preserver spell supercharged spells. It probably wasn't safe to use this modified version unless he tweaked it, or gave anyone upon whom he might possibly cast that spell a thorough grounding in its use, and its effects upon normal spellwork.</p><p>The tree fought the fortified levitation spell, and the tree won-this time. Ginny frowned, and glared the tree down again, eyes narrowed. Harry watched, standing well back, and contemplating how best to hide the blood on his face. Perhaps, the same way that he was hiding the ever-deepening wounds on his hand? Minus the bandage? The water of the Black Lake probably wasn't the best way of cleaning any sort of wound. The water-conjuring spells he knew would work, if he had a cloth. Otherwise, he'd just end up soaked….</p><p>Mostly, though, he watched her progress. Ginny slowed down her spellwork just enough to be able to pinpoint the progress of energy as it moved down her hands. After that first time, she didn't try to restrain it if it managed to reach her hands. This was probably good practice for wandless magic, too, because Harry'd used <em>only</em> wandless magic until he'd started Hogwarts.</p><p>And, most of the spells he'd fortified with this one had been wandless.</p><p>"Can you do wandless magic?" he asked her, breaking her concentration. The magic that had been filtering down towards her hand at an admirably staggered rate dissolved back into her body. She turned to glare at him. Then, her gaze turned thoughtful.</p><p>"I don't know," she said. "I never studied it."</p><p>"Wands are only conductors-they facilitate magic, help to strengthen it, and to bind it together if it seems to be fraying around the edges."</p><p>Her blank look told him that she had no idea what he meant.</p><p>"Make the motions, say the words, feel the energy build up—but don't use your wand. Hand it over."</p><p>He held out an expectant hand. He probably should have predicted that she'd clutch it close to her chest, instead. Wizards and their magic wands. Not that he was one to talk: the Sword of Gryffindor was practically a security blanket, at this point.</p><p>"Or, you can hide it somewhere and come back here. I just thought perhaps you trusted me enough to watch it for a few seconds."</p><p>Ginny looked down, biting her lip, and then, with a sluggish slowness, held out the wand. Harry waited a few seconds, cocking his head to stare at it.</p><p>"Are you going to attack me, again?" he asked, dubious.</p><p>"Just take it, already," Ginny snapped, in return, and Harry snatched the wand from her grasp before she could change her mind. Ginny returned to her showdown with the tree.</p><p>Her movements were whippier and swifter than Harry would have chosen, but she'd spent the past five tries studying the way the magic flowed when you cast that particular spell. She could isolate it, she was sure, even at normal speed.</p><p>"<em>Wingardium leviosa</em>!" she cried, in a voice like the crack of a whip. Because she could imagine the way the magic would continue out of her hand when it used a conduit (a wand), that was how it behaved, traveling the distance in a straight line until it hit the unfortunate tree branch. Her fingers stung. She didn't think that wandless magic was very good for you.</p><p>Harry stared at the tree, eyes narrowed, trying to pinpoint how well she'd done, whether she'd only affected the one tree branch, or the entire tree.</p><p>"<em>That</em> is more like it," he decided. "Can you do it again?"</p><p>Ginny's look said that she was considering the merits of sending him into another tree, on purpose, this time. He smiled at her.</p><p>"I mean: well done, Ginny dear. Quite impressive, given that these are your first experiments with the subject. But, there <em>is</em> a connection between the Star Preserver spell, and wandless magic, you know."</p><p>She just turned very red and stared down at her shoes, and then closed her eyes, tracing the familiar wand movements, even without any wand, before pointing at the tree branch with her finger, crying "<em>Wingardium leviosa</em>!"</p><p>Her eyes snapped open, wide. "This is <em>amazing</em>!" she cried, suddenly full of energy. "I can almost <em>see</em> it! Well, not <em>see</em> it, really, it's this sort of <em>feeling</em>-"</p><p>And, part of the reason that they'd been having such trouble was that he'd been teaching her three different things at once. He hadn't meant to. But now he had, he would have to see the thing through and try to teach her how to use her seventh sense…and wandless magic…and the Star Preserver Spell.</p><p>Well, perhaps she'd been demoted from assistant, but at least he had no shortage of work cut out for him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Stephen's Newest Theory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stephen confronts Harry about the mantra, his history of brainwashing, and his belief that Thanos's corruption is external from himself.  Harry is not happy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took an hour for Ginny to run out of the energy fueling the Star Preserver spell, and her own energy was nothing diminished. He had the time to wonder whether or not he might be building up her magic reserves, with how much magic she was using, even though she wasn't <em>losing</em> any energy. Mostly, however, he studied her progress. Her success with the levitation charm was based in the fact that it was simple, and familiar. It was a spell learnt very early on, with few component parts, requiring no amount of finesse. It was almost crude in its simplicity.</p><p>Ginny was willing to call it a victory when she could cast the spell, without affecting the rest of the tree, consistently. She was very excited, and bubbly in her excitement, daring to throw her arms around Harry in a hug that she cut short the moment that she realised what she was doing. Harry decided that private lessons were not such a bad idea, after all. At least, not with Ginny.</p><p>They made arrangements to try a different spell a week hence, again by the Lake. Harry had yet to lay out a special syllabus, even in his mind, or what spells it made sense to cover with her. Who knew what materials they might need? The Room of Requirement was secure, and secluded, but no one was out and about the Black Lake at this time of night, either, and there was less chance of being caught by Filch, or Mrs. Norris, out here. And, having the Forest and the Lake nearby would facilitate practising any sort of spells that might be related to nature.</p><p>There was also the fact that, located near the Forbidden Forest, as he was, he stood a better chance of catching the attention of the centaurs. Hagrid had them pegged, however, as Harry realised after only searching for them for only a couple of months (an hour a Friday, each). He was absolutely right in saying that they were difficult to find when they didn't want to be found. And, it couldn't have been plainer that, for the moment, they were not particularly eager to be found. Perhaps, something else was distracting them, or perhaps it was what Firenze had said, in first year, about a reluctance to alter the course of destiny-or to set it in motion.</p><p>Really, though, what effect would letting Harry explain circumstances of his reality to them have, especially if he were the one to do all the talking? They weren't being reasonable. Also, he resented the fact that they seemed to be better at hiding than he. Whence came such an ability?</p><p>In the meantime, he spent an hour-that first hour-seeking for them in the Forest, only to concede defeat, and retreat to Hogwarts's warm but welcoming halls at about two-thirty in the morning.</p><p>In the meantime, the school year continued to progress much as it had been. Banned from quidditch, he threw his energy into the DA, and into training Ginny, and continuing to build his magical reserves with Ron and Stephen, and now Hermione. It was quite a lot to keep track of.</p><p>Particularly with his nightly torture sessions to consider. If the torture itself were not trial enough, he furthermore had to restrain Ron, who had never yet been presented with a clear and accessible threat to his brother's safety (in this life). Not exactly known for restraint at the best times, it might only have been knowledge that he would do no good to Harry thrown in jail that stayed his hand.</p><p>This required an explanation, or rather, a lecture, to keep him in check. The unfortunate thing being that the most opportune chance for this discussion happened to fall on a Thursday, which meant that Stephen could appear. And interrupt.</p><p>It started off well enough. Harry came back late from detention, yet again. They had passed the point where Mother could be talked out of healing his wounds long ago. He was resigned to this fact. She worried that, as the limits of the quill were unknown, he risked causing permanent, non-superficial damage, to muscle and nerves. Perhaps even, as he'd thought with no true belief in its possibility, back during that first detention, into his very bones themselves.</p><p>And Harry was forced to concede the point, owing in part to his knowledge that if he <em>were</em> to sustain such severe damage as would cripple his hand, Ron would lose his last vestiges of self-control. It was, perhaps, both the best and worst thing about having Thor as your older brother, he reflected.</p><p>"It's fine, Ron," he said, sitting down in his familiar armchair in the empty Common Room, and unwinding the bandages around his hand with what, on other nights, he might have realised was a rather ungrateful sort of resignation, knowing that Hermione <em>would</em> insist on him soaking his hand in murtlap essence. There was no avoiding it.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, given his choice of words, Ron didn't believe him. It was also an undeniable truth that absolutely nothing that involved Umbridge could be labeled "fine". He considered how to rephrase his recent statement. Abandoned the attempt. "Come now, Ron, if you're reacting <em>this</em> badly to the early sessions, when my hand is only starting to bleed, I don't know how we'll make it all the way to the end of the month without you getting thrown into Azkaban."</p><p>"It would be worth it," Ron insisted, without missing a beat, as if he'd been considering the merits of avoiding Azkaban, versus the merits of removing Umbridge from everyone's misery.</p><p>Harry stared. "That's full of dementors. The things that force you to remember the worst moments of your life. Also, you'd be in prison."</p><p>The idea that someone would knowingly choose a course of action that headed in the direction of either prison or dementors beggared belief. As for <em>both</em>….</p><p>"I am aware of that fact," Ron said, with his levelest look, as if saying, <em>I've thought this through, and I know what I'm doing</em>. Which couldn't possibly be true. No one was affected by dementors worse than Harry—at least, no one attending Hogwarts—but Ron came in second or third for worst affected. What must he be thinking?</p><p>"I hardly think Umbridge is worth such attention from you," he said, with a shrug. He'd managed to talk Ron out of murdering the Dursleys—for now, but Umbridge was a particularly tempting target, what with how Ron saw her every day, and how she called attention to herself constantly, vexing everyone with her scathing remarks and thinly-veiled insults. The entire school, bar three-quarters of Slytherin House, who had been given extra power by her, <em>hated</em> her.</p><p>"You are family," Ron said, with that familiar sincerity that made it impossible to resent or fault him. "Her actions have not only harmed you, but dishonoured our family."</p><p>Harry buried his head in his hands. "She's not worth it," he said. "She's weaving as fine a net as she can, and she'd <em>love</em> to catch you, too. If you took action against her, you would only make a—what's the term?—<em>martyr</em> of her, and advance her cause. Right now, I am the only chess piece within her grasp. Don't go putting yourself in her way, too. First year was quite enough for me."</p><p>He shuddered, thinking back to the disastrous chess match at the end of first year, and hoping that Thor took his meaning. He sometimes did, but tonight he'd elected to be particularly stubborn.</p><p>"You're insufferable!" Hermione cried. "Why can't you just appreciate that Ron <em>cares</em> about you?" Hermione demanded, setting down her bowl gently, despite the sharpness of her words. Harry blinked at her, as if not entirely sure who she was or whence she'd come.</p><p>"I don't see that trying to protect him from himself constitutes 'not appreciating' him. I'm just trying to keep him from sacrificing himself senselessly. He has a long history of it."</p><p>A <em>very</em> long history, he thought to add, but sensibly didn't. He wasn't <em>that</em> exhausted, yet.</p><p>"You're both so <em>stupid</em>! I don't want to have any part of this conversation!" she cried, storming off. No pun intended..</p><p>Thanks to Harry's detentions, they'd delayed Stephen's weekly visits by a few hours. Not that it mattered that much, usually, as <em>usually</em> Stephen appeared by the Room of Requirement (which, of course, you couldn't transport directly into even by Sling Ring). Everyone would then head inside for a council of war.</p><p>But, of course, tonight they were late, and Hermione was rather irate. That probably explained why Stephen took the risk of coming to the Gryffindor Common Room. That and the fact that, had he appeared, revealing himself to the wizarding community, and wrecking the timeline, he would most likely have been able to prevent this from happening. Or rather, <em>Harry</em> would warn him in the future, and then he'd never have appeared to begin with.</p><p>These sorts of speculations lend themselves naturally to the conclusion that Stephen appeared there, on that night, because someone had told him that this was the night that Harry had finally confronted Ron about the whole Umbridge problem. However, that assumption requires that they <em>any</em> of them remember the exact date on which this conversation had occurred. No, in point of fact, Stephen's appearance in the common room was just a natural consequence of their delay.</p><p>Because Hermione had just gone upstairs, and Harry was trying to talk sense to Thor, no one noticed his arrival. This is saying something, given Harry's usual wariness, (and Ron was not exactly easy to catch off-guard, either).</p><p>Harry was continuing to lay out his case for why Ron should restrain himself. Ron, to his credit, was listening, for all the good that would do.</p><p>"This is nothing," Harry was insisting now. "I've suffered much worse." Thor bristled at this reminder, naturally, but there was also a slumping of the shoulders, face troubled and downcast, as he reflected upon <em>all the times</em> he had failed to be there. Well he might! "If you were to do anything against Umbridge, the Ministry would have every right to send you to Azkaban, and I would need to break you out. I might not succeed, either. You know how dementors affect me."</p><p>It was a bit like the night that Thor had almost died—as if the only plan that Harry could come up with that stood any chance of working was to <em>shame</em> him into restraint. Because that had worked <em>so</em> well before. He reached for an alternative, but rather suspected that he'd need Hermione's help. And, she'd just wandered off on her own.</p><p>"Where have you been?" Stephen asked, and Harry started, whirling around, only somewhat reassured by the sight of the portal closing behind Stephen, who seemed to realise that he'd managed to take them by surprise, because he abandoned his line of thought, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Don't tell me you two are arguing over something pointless, again."</p><p>"<em>Clearly</em>, you were an only child," Harry said. "Although, it <em>is</em> entirely possible that we have a slightly different dynamic than is usual. Is it common for younger siblings to have to protect their <em>older</em> siblings from their own folly, do you suppose?"</p><p>Somehow, Thor managed not to rise to this rather obvious bait, despite the stress already put on his self-control. A steel girder will break under sufficient load, after all.</p><p>Stephen did not have a study for him, which suggested that the idea didn't matter to him one whit. Stephen glanced around the common room, noted that Hermione wasn't here, and realised that this was one of <em>those</em> days, in which he'd have to wait for at least an hour before anyone was ready to do anything of consequence.</p><p>Harry waited a second, before continuing his argument, possibly in a different place.</p><p>"I must say, if you can't even keep your temper in check against Umbridge, you won't last long against…You-Know-Who."</p><p>Harry swallowed, hard, glancing down at the floor. He didn't miss the way Thor suddenly stiffened, wide-eyed. He frowned. Such an extreme reaction, for such an ordinary statement. Was it because he'd brought up <em>Thanos</em>, out of nowhere? But, Stephen also looked a bit…pale.</p><p>"Ron?" Harry asked. <em>"Now </em>what ails you?" He might have rolled his eyes, but Stephen's unusual reaction made him a bit warier. There was something important he was missing, here.</p><p>"This is just a guess," Stephen said, "but I think he might be remembering that night when you and I first met. You know, the one at the end of first year."</p><p>It took Harry a moment. "The one where I tried to kill you," he realised. That explained Stephen's current unease. And was probably sufficient explanation for Thor's, as well. Then, a further realisation.</p><p>"Don't be so quick to jump to conclusions," he snapped. "<em>Umbridge</em> isn't about to push me over the edge. This pain, as I said before, is hardly worth mentioning. You make entirely too much of it."</p><p>Stephen paused to consider this.</p><p>"What was it that I said?" Harry continued, genuinely curious. No one was ever willing to speak of that time of their own volition, and he had enough holes in his memory as it was, thank you.</p><p>A long pause.</p><p>"You told me that I would not last one hour against Thanos," Thor said. The two of them relaxed when Harry flinched, and he scowled at them. He understood <em>why</em> they reacted thus, but that did nothing to allay a certain resentment, that his fear was their relief.</p><p>At least they'd hesitated to tell him.</p><p>"Well, if I have sufficiently proven my authenticity, perhaps I might return to attempting to prevent Ron doing yet another foolish thing," he snapped.</p><p>"Thor can look after himself," Stephen reminded him, as if recovering from his recent fright. Couldn't he have stayed out of it until Harry'd made his point?</p><p>"He can hold his own in a fight," Harry corrected Stephen. "That is <em>not at all</em> the same thing. It is <em>my</em> responsibility to talk him out of making foolish choices." Because he was the scholar-advisor, with some protective capacity.</p><p>"Is it foolish, then, to seek retribution against the woman who has <em>tortured</em> you? Am I required to watch you suffer, and do nothing? You must think me heartless, Brother," Thor said, shaking his head, where he stood over by the doorway, perhaps for advance warning if anyone decided to enter via the portrait hole.</p><p>"I've had worse," Harry insisted. "This is nothing. You're just letting sentimentality get in the way of a cause-"</p><p>"Now, wait a minute here," said Stephen, interjecting yet again. "Haven't Sirius and I <em>both</em> said that that 'Show no weakness' shit you two treat like a motto is nonsense?"</p><p>And Thor said, "You have said before that <em>pain</em> is the tool used by…You-Know-Who. She endangers us all, not only by her choice not to teach Defence, but also by her treatment of you."</p><p>Harry pretended that he wasn't listening, resting his chin on his fist, and gazing askance at the fire. There was a certain reassurance to the layout of this room. It occurred to him that his mother had based her living room on the common room of Gryffindor Tower. The location that was its inspiration felt full of her presence and protection.</p><p>He closed his eyes. This year was wearing him down, loath though he was to admit it. He should be making a better counterargument, but it seemed that Stephen was on Thor's side. Didn't he understand the politics or tactics of this struggle? Didn't he see <em>Harry's</em> point?</p><p>"A little pain in my hand is hardly cause for such concern," he began, but Thor had to interject the reminder (as if anyone could forget) that she had drawn blood. He could feel it, under the bandages, how the wound hadn't sealed shut, yet. But, this was trivial.</p><p>Fatigue, and the toll the year was taking on him in general, made his responses sluggish, made thoughts harder to string together. Almost he was reminded of early in third year, when the dementors had rent him to pieces. Such were not good thoughts to be having right now.</p><p>Stephen knew that Harry would regain his metaphorical footing, given time, and refused to give him the opportunity to recover. He pressed the attack, with a certain ruthlessness that seemed to come of spending too long around Harry. Or, at least, training with him.</p><p>"Why are you so determined to suffer on your own? I'm sure Thor has <em>some</em> sense off discretion, but before we get to that, let me just tell you about a theory I've had, and see if you understand where I'm coming from."</p><p>What was Harry supposed to say to what seemed a sudden, abrupt shift in topics? But, it must have had some relevance, of Stephen <em>wouldn't</em> have brought it up just now. He'd have continued making Thor's argument for him. Which meant that whatever "theory" he'd just mentioned must also advance Thor's argument. But, perhaps, a lack of direct assault would give Harry the opportunity to formulate a response.</p><p>He gave an offhand wave, as if he weren't paying attention. And, he wasn't, not at first. But, Stephen drew him into the topic by sheer persistence.</p><p>"It's as Thor just said: you said <em>pain</em> is Thanos's way into your mind. Don't think you can just tune me out, and I won't notice. I want you to <em>listen</em> to me. Maybe you think my theory is riddled with holes; fine, tell me that. But, give me the chance to make my case. We've listened to you. Don't you think you owe me a little respect, when I'm trying to help you, here?"</p><p>Harry huffed. "Fine. I'm listening," he said, glancing over in Stephen's direction. Thor frowned.</p><p>"Here's my thoughts on the matter: you say that pain is Thanos's way into your mind." Harry glared up at him through his bangs. He still tended to flinch whenever anyone said the name, which must be how Stephen had known that he wasn't listening. Why couldn't he have been stupid? But, as Harry was thinking this, Stephen continued laying out his theory, of course.</p><p>"You said that…that he tortured you, and you came up with that <em>mantra</em>, which you must have based on all that tough guy training you two received when you were kids. <em>Show no weakness</em>, and that. You refused to show him weakness, so you convinced yourself that you didn't care, because then there wouldn't be any weakness to hide.</p><p>"But now, fifteen or however many years after the fact, you say that you think that that <em>mantra</em> you came up with was what broke you. You thought you were being strong, but really, you were falling for his trap. Doesn't that sound right?"</p><p>Harry glared at him. "Is there a reason you're dredging up the most dangerous parts of my past when I can least afford their influence?"</p><p>At least Thor didn't seem to understand, either. He just stood there by the portrait hole, looking down, brow furrowed, but keeping quiet, as if he knew that Stephen was fighting in his corner. Which he probably did. Let it never be said that he ever confused allies and foes.</p><p>"Here's my theory, then: maybe there <em>is</em> no corrupted corner of your mind, as you keep insisting. Maybe you've just created a split personality for yourself, and you're doing the very same thing you did last year—only a much smaller piece of your mind, and with much more disastrous consequences. Maybe there's only any danger at all because you've convinced yourself that there is."</p><p>Ah. The phrase "all in your mind", given an entirely new meaning. But, there was a reason to believe that it <em>was</em> a connection to Thanos, he just couldn't recall—</p><p>"I mean, think about it: Thanos won't even <em>meet</em> you for, what, another twenty years? How would he be able to influence you? From the future?"</p><p>Possible if he had the Time Stone. No one knew quite what that was capable of. Its location a mystery, as were those of most of the Infinity Stones. Harry frowned. There was something about that sentiment, that—</p><p>Anyway, Thanos didn't have the Mind Stone, in the future. And, Stephen's and Ron's experiences with time travel suggested that time was a complicated thing (well, who didn't know that?) and that changes to the past would effect changes in the future. If Thanos-of-the-future had access to Harry's mind, then he would know that the Chitauri Invasion had been a failure, which would mean that he'd keep working on it until he succeeded, which would mean, almost certainly, that neither Loki nor Thor could be here in the past, which meant—</p><p>So, no, he probably wasn't using the Time Stone combined with the Mind Stone in the future (did he even have the ability to use two at once? One was strain enough for most mortals), which meant that that corrupted corner of his mind was an impression, a relic, something left behind from when Thanos had invaded his mind before. A hole in his defences, the spirit of influence, the essence of will, by which the Mind Stone functioned. A piece of mind, perhaps, you might call it.</p><p>But, then, it must have been there all along, but dormant. It had awoken first year, in the Forest, when Quirrell had tried to read his mind, but it had been there.</p><p>"Even if it's real," Stephen said. "Don't you think you're giving it power, easy access to <em>you</em>, personally? If you just accepted it as a part of yourself, rather than foreign influence—"</p><p>"It <em>isn't</em> a part of me, Stephen," Harry said, in his lowest, deadliest voice. "It knows things I don't, remembers events that I have no recollection of. It's a relic, a byproduct of how the Mind Stone works—"</p><p>"Or you've convinced yourself of that fact, so that you don't have to deal with the consequences of your actions."</p><p>Harry gripped the arms of his armchair tight, white-knuckled, staring, seething, dead ahead. Stephen couldn't think that this was the same as when he'd been in denial about who he was!</p><p>"Look, Loki!" said Stephen, sitting down on the sofa with a sigh. "I knew you wouldn't like this theory. And, you know, I'm not denying that you were mind-controlled, or brainwashed, or any of that—not during the Chitauri Invasion, and before. Maybe even after. But, for that to follow you into the past seems highly unlikely. Maybe you're just afraid. You'll insist that you're human. Well, giving fear so much power it does things we wouldn't even consider possible is one of humanity's strangest abilities."</p><p>Harry glared at him. "And, what do you propose I do to fix this, then?" he said, as if he thought the theory had any merit. Thor left his post as guard by the door, to watch him closely. "Pretend that nothing is wrong? Take no precautions? If it is only my own mind, then there is no danger, right?"</p><p>Stephen pressed his fingers to his temples in a familiar gesture of frustration. "Just…think about it, okay? And, maybe, try integrating that corner of your mind into the rest of your mind, rather than <em>it</em> integrating <em>you</em>."</p><p>"Mother is the one who walled it off," he said, glaring at the floor. But, he was tired—this year had worn him out—and anger was emotionally draining on its own. Stephen was one of his few, close friends, and Harry knew that Stephen meant well. He just didn't know what he was talking about.</p><p>"Perhaps, I'm wrong, then," Stephen said, diplomatically.</p><p>Harry glanced to his right to see Thor still standing guard. Harry's sole sentinel, as Ron had once promised. "You needn't worry, Thor. I'm not about to go crazy and try to take over the world."</p><p>"That's another thing!" Stephen said. "That machismo that <em>you</em>, in particular, carry around with you everywhere. That's the <em>foundation</em> of the mantra you say was your undoing. You're always acting as if <em>nothing can hurt you</em>, and as if <em>you don't care</em>."</p><p>Harry flinched, although he chastised himself for such a great reaction. <em>Show no weakness</em>.</p><p>"And, more even than <em>that</em>, you always try to pretend that you don't <em>care</em> about anyone! What were you doing just now? Trying to convince Thor not to try to protect you from Umbridge? Not to fight for you, even though you're the only family he <em>has</em> right now? Just as you did that night, four years ago, insisting that the fact that he <em>cares</em> will somehow endanger him."</p><p>It was a low blow, bringing up that night—again, the night he couldn't remember, from first year. He didn't know what that corrupted corner of his mind had said or done. Thus, he couldn't refute anything they said built off it.</p><p>"I <em>do</em> care," he said again, his voice very quiet, and very low. "I care, although I can little afford it. I cared even then. There is little use in denying it. What is your <em>point</em>, Stephen?"</p><p>"That maybe, if apathy, and convincing yourself that nothing mattered, is what drove you mad…well, maybe having a support network, and friends, and not treating your friends and family like shit, is the antidote. Maybe the key to not going crazy and opening up that prison you've made in your mind isn't avoiding pain, it's <em>caring</em> enough to hold it back. I know you don't do <em>sappy</em>, but isn't that the logical conclusion?"</p><p>Harry shrugged, and tried to smile. "I don't know," he said, with false levity that had Thor frowning, and shaking his head. "I don't do <em>logic</em>, either. You'd have to run it by Hermione."</p><p>It was something he'd already figured out before, he thought, only not quite to this extent. "Love, his guiding force", right?</p><p>"Simple words, then. <em>Caring</em> is the opposite of apathy. Maybe the way not to…<em>break</em>, is to care about your friends, and accepting that, yeah, that comes with a bit of hardship and pain, but you'll get through it, together. Not to sound like a cheesy sitcom, or anything."</p><p>"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry said, voice flat. He wasn't sure that he'd ever heard the term "sitcom" before.</p><p>"He makes a good case," Thor decided, as well he might, as Stephen was taking <em>his</em> side in the conflict.</p><p>"Now, I'm not saying that you can't try and protect Thor from making dumb mistakes, I'm just saying that maybe you should stop objecting about him caring about you, as if it's some sort of <em>weakness</em>. Maybe it means he'd last <em>longer</em>, or wouldn't break at all."</p><p>"What, is this a therapy session?" Harry retorted, feeling rubbed raw by Stephen's analysis. Life liked to turn all of his assumptions on their heads, anyway. He stared over at the fire, shaking, and wondering what it would be like, if he were shivering from the cold, instead. How that felt. Such a foreign experience.</p><p>"You should <em>try</em> therapy. You know, after you've beaten Voldemort, and gone out into the big world. It might help."</p><p>Harry glared at him. It was not much, as far as glares went, but he was too tired to muster the energy for a better one.</p><p>"You would have me reveal weakness for the enemy to exploit, then?" he demanded, with a hoarse, bitter laugh. Stephen frowned, in response.</p><p>"No. But, you can't possibly believe that you could rid yourself of all exploitable weaknesses. Besides, you're far out of his sight, for now. Do you know why the Avengers beat you? It's because they're a <em>team</em>."</p><p>Thor very deliberately wouldn't look in his direction.</p><p>"And, against a group of likeminded people—people with superpowers, true, but still—it boiled down to you versus them."</p><p>"Natasha's friendship with Clint was what broke him out of the mind control," Thor interjected, with a ridiculous amount of cheer.</p><p>"And, your Mother's love is what protects you from—"</p><p>"I get it!" Harry snapped. "You have <em>made</em> your point!" He stood. "I believe I have heard quite enough. Perhaps, you would like to continue this discussion next week?"</p><p>He followed Hermione's lead, and left, knowing even as he did that avoiding Stephen for this week would do nothing to stop Thor from nagging him about Stephen's newest theory.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This one needs fixing at some point because I forgot what I was even talking about when I wrote the first draft.  I tried to fix it without breaking the flow.  Someday, perhaps, I'll be able to fix it so that it only says what it's supposed to.<br/>Nah.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Rude Awakening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Seen and Unforeseen", kind of.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The quidditch match that had resulted in half the gryffindor quidditch team members being banned for life had happened near the end of November. By that time, they'd already had several meetings of the Defence Association. (Harry refused to call it "Dumbledore's Army", regardless of what it was called.)</p><p>It approached the end of the third month at Hogwarts. How Harry had managed to go two whole months without detention from Umbridge, even he couldn't tell. Part of it must have been that he indeed had quite a bit of restraint, despite the restlessness born of his dreams of darkened corridors, or the persistent headaches, or a stronger mysterious influence than the undercurrent which had skewed his reactions, last year at the Quidditch World Cup. Then, too, he'd made it a matter of pride, withstanding Umbridge.</p><p>At the end of September, he'd laid out the Ministry's plans for sabotage—what he could discern of them—for Mother to assist him in analysing. At the end of the second, he'd discussed the newborn DA. He rather thought they'd said as much as needed saying on either subject. He needed to take his mind off the newest torture session, and cast about for something else to discuss with Mother on the night of November Thirtieth.</p><p>But, he couldn't go a month without his torture sessions coming up in conversation, could he? He couldn't help noticing that the wounds inflicted upon his hand had carried over, even into his soulscape, and they stung even there. They must have been there for the past two months, as well, and he hadn't noticed, because of how much more severe (how much lengthier) these detentions were, and of course, the fact that the current torture sessions built on the work of those previous ones.</p><p>It gave him pause, standing before the familiar wooden door, hand poised to knock, to see the wounds, blood trickling down his unbandaged hand. The <em>other</em> magic came more easily than wizarding magic, here. All he had to do was concentrate, for a moment, as he had when he'd resized his clothes, two years ago, and his hand was wrapt in bandages in his soulscape, as it had been in the outside world. That did little to curb the sharp stinging, but it was better than nothing. Perhapsm a cosmetic difference, which accomplished nothing. He still humoured it, before knocking upon the wooden door.</p><p>As was usual, he waited for his mother to call him in before opening the door. He knew that she'd been healing his hand, against his prior requests, but understood the sentiment behind it, without needing to ask. He reconsidered accepting Mother's help.</p><p>He knew that she would find him, no matter where in the house he roam. He had been forbidden the basement, but he was permitted to go anywhere else in the house.</p><p>However, his intentions were mostly to speak with her. He wondered what she had to say of the Longbottoms, and their fates. He wondered what she made of Ginny, and remembered his private lessons with her. Harry, taught by his mother, teaching Ginny—did that make Ginny her student, too, indirectly? Why did it feel as if he ought to ask Mother's permission before sharing such secrets?</p><p>He didn't cast so much as a glance at the living room, knowing that she wouldn't be there, even now. She'd spent too long in that one room to return to it even now. She would not have gone down into the basement, which he was forbidden to enter, and the fact that it had snowed just last week meant that it would be too cold for her (though not for him) for her to be outside.</p><p>He climbed the stairs to the second storey, instead. He had never made it very far, here, before Mother had intercepted him. This time was no different. It gave him the impression that there might be hidden secrets to this storey of the house—perhaps less threatening ones than whatever lay in the basement. It aroused suspicion.</p><p>Today, again, she came around the corner onto the landing just as he approached the stairs, which did not seem a coincidence, to him. But, after a glance outside at the snow through the upstairs window, she sighed, and led him into the first room of the hallway-a small nursery, as it turned out. He'd never seen it before, and yet it somehow seemed familiar.</p><p>"This room is based on the room in which I died," Lily Evans said. She had had little enough opportunity to speak of matters of before-she-had-died, last time. She did not often let the glow around her fall, either. And, this room….</p><p>"Did I also die?" asked Harry, with a certain, careless indifference which would have had Ron scolding him for making light of his own death.</p><p>Mum understood that that was not what he was doing at all. She stared at the empty crib as if expecting something to be there. But, there was nothing but a well-loved toy stag plushie. She sighed, reaching into the crib to pull it out, and turned to hand it to him. He took it, without comprehending why she was offering it, to begin with.</p><p>"If I know the answer to that question, it's probably hidden in this room, somewhere," she said, glancing around it, as if searching for hidden passages, or something. But, surely she would be aware of those, if anyone was. "You must have heard of psychometry. That objects retain impressions—memories of events. This is the one most likely to contain information—memories—of what happened that night."</p><p>And, once he'd touched it, he'd infused it with his own memories. Oh. But, that didn't answer the question, either, did it? Could he expect to find the answer to his question in either of their memories of that night?</p><p>He set the toy down on the end table, next to the lamp flooding their little corner with light. Despite that this was a nursery, there were no child-sized chairs. He sat down in one of the chairs, the one right next to the end table, and Mother sat in the chair next to his. Neither of them would turn to the left, to look at the crib.</p><p>Mum took hold of the hand closer to her—which was his right. He winced, and she gave him a look of stern reproach. The message was clear. He ignored it, and she responded by clamping a hand around his wrist (gently, gently) and unwrapping the bandage. He could have fought her, but knew that there was little to be gained from that.</p><p>"You have been healing my hand, despite what I told you," he accused her, instead, as she carefully unwrapt the bandage.</p><p>"There was risk of permanent damage to your hand, had I not," she replied, staring at the temporarily closed wound in dismay. "As it stands, I fear that I did too little, and acted too late."</p><p>Harry scowled. "I wouldn't have let it get that far. I know my limits."</p><p>"Do you indeed?" asked his mother, with a level look, so calm that he couldn't meet her gaze without squirming. He gave a half-hearted effort to remove his hand from her grasp, even as his mother's healing magic flooded into him through her hands, into his. The realisation that she was using her meagre energy to heal him necessitated that he feed energy back into her, as he had two years ago, as he rarely had had to do. The message was clear: Mother would heal him if he failed to take care of himself. He could either use his own energy to help accelerate the healing process—or she would use her own, and he risked losing her. Not that she threatened him, but… he understood.</p><p>This was what happened when he tried to do things alone, then?</p><p>With this realisation in mind, he abandoned his most recent plans for what he wished to speak of, and, with what was almost a smile, turned back to Mother. Perhaps, she'd be able to explain some things to him.</p><p>Of course, being trapped inside his soul was hardly conducive to interpreting the actions of someone of the outside world, whom she would never meet. And, she didn't know what had become of Frank and Alice Longbottom—their fates must have befallen them after she had already died. He would have to ask Neville, after all. He accepted this, and, with a sigh, moved on to Ginny.</p><p>Mother had known Neville, Frank, and Alice, as they had all been members of the Order of the Phoenix. She had never met any of the Weasleys. Which didn't stop her from smiling mysteriously, as if she did, indeed, understand far more of Ginny's actions than Harry did.</p><p>She did have some suggestions for avoiding Ginny's wrath, though, so it all worked out.</p>
<hr/><p>Harry missed the second Hogsmeade weekend of the year, which might have been just as well. The DA was going well, Neville had already improved markedly, but with everyone—or most everyone—going home for the holidays, it had to be put on hold, for the moment.</p><p>He dismissed them all with best wishes for the holidays, a few days after the end of term exams ended. Hermione shook her head at the vague smile that accompanied this pronouncement, as if she understood <em>precisely</em> what track his mind was wandering along. Maybe he should speak with her on the matter—it was the sort of philosophical dilemma he was fairly sure that she'd appreciate. He still hadn't asked Ron, but Ron had probably just deliberately never given the matter much thought.</p><p>"You <em>are</em> insufferable," she said, shaking her head, as they watched the last stragglers clearing out.</p><p>"I'm not the one who hung garlands of Harry Potter baubles throughout the room. Where did Dobby even <em>get</em> that stuff?" Harry protested.</p><p>"You know what I'm talking about," Hermione said, eyes narrowed, hands on her hips. "And, I suppose he made them, himself."</p><p>Harry shuddered. "Yes, that seems to fit," he agreed, dismally. He'd applied perhaps more force than strictly necessary to removing the strands from the walls, even though it could scarce be considered necessary to remove them at all. He'd insisted upon taking them down before the DA could arrive. Smith needed no more ammunition than he'd already been given. Poor Dobby, though. He'd probably meant well.</p><p>Harry brought himself back to the moment. "Anyway, I don't even know what to think of Christmas. I <em>do</em> appreciate a bit of a reprieve, but—"</p><p>"You should ask Ron," Hermione said. Ron heard his name, and turned to them. He could not have made it clearer that he'd been paying no heed at all to their conversation.</p><p>"What joke am I missing, and why would Harry ask <em>Ron</em> for advice on <em>anything</em>?" Ginny demanded, glancing around the room. Harry started, and Ron took a step back, but Hermione seemed unsurprised. It was quite the reversal of their usual dynamic. When had <em>Ginny</em> gotten so good at sneaking around?</p><p>"Ginny?" he asked. "What are <em>you</em> still doing here?"</p><p>He realised that that question sounded rather rude, and cast about for a way to make his meaning plainer. "I mean, I assumed that you'd already left with everyone else."</p><p>Ginny turned very bright red, and looked away from them, staring up at the ceiling, and then down at the floor. Harry stared at her, watching her as if she'd crack under pressure and reveal her top-secret plans, but that only made her wring her hands and grow so red it was a wonder that she didn't combust.</p><p>"Er—I—er—well, I thought—" she stammered, and he gave up speaking to her for a lost cause.</p><p>At least for the moment. She was usually rather more coherent. Something must have flustered her. But, at least it had distracted her from the previous topic.</p><p>He didn't need Ron's incredulous glance cast his way, or Hermione facepalming, to know that he was missing something.</p>
<hr/><p>The real reason that he'd missed the Hogsmeade trip was that it came <em>after</em> their abrupt departure from Hogwarts. That couldn't have been planned for, although Harry'd assumed that he'd be going back to Grimmauld Place, anyway, to spend the break with Sirius, and perhaps Remus and Tonks. And, that <em>was</em> what happened. Just…not as he'd expected.</p><p>He awoke from one of those visions—the sort that had the Sorting Hat urge him to teach himself occlumency (and he <em>had</em> meant to make good on that; truly he had). In truth, he'd quite forgotten all about occlumency, being far more concerned with his nightly torture sessions, and his plans for the wars, and trying to rein in Ron, and of course the DA…something had to give.</p><p>It was also possible (it was always occlumency that was "forgotten", which made him suspicious of his own motives) that he <em>deliberately</em> forgot, on account of a certain recalcitrance in the direction of all mind magic.</p><p>Regardless of his reasons for slacking on this one front, it was the common consensus that his visions were the result of his neglecting occlumency. To the extent that Dumbledore would assign him practice sessions with Snape—and these he could neither put off nor forget. It was dishearteningly clever of Dumbledore, to box him in, thus.</p><p>The vision in question centred upon Mr. Weasley, Ron's sort-of father, being attacked in the familiar darkened corridor. Harry had seemed to be viewing this from the snake's point of view. There was a certain familiarity to the experience, that of being someone <em>else</em> in his dreams, that had him comparing them to the dreams he'd had after he'd turned ten, despite himself.</p><p>He was <em>sure</em> that this was a vision—it was even more coherent than the dream he'd had the night that Frank Bryce had died, for one thing. For another, it was consistent with reality, as he knew it. For a third, it interrupted, cutting through some stupid forgettable dream of the sort he'd once had exclusively. Something to do with Dobby hanging up Harry Potter head garlands? To go from that to the darkened corridor was…jarring.</p><p>Not as alarming as the sudden shift in atmosphere, and mood, Harry enthralled to the sentiments of the snake he was…accompanying. That moment of eager anticipation, the bloodlust, the rising vexation with the man who barred the door, and then a release of some of that pent-up frustration upon his sleeping form.</p><p>Some part of Harry must have known that this was happening in real time, and must have recognised, even in his sleep, the familiar shape of the kindly man who had taken him in, for two summers, always so childishly enthusiastic about things Harry took for granted—all those little muggle inventions. He would bleed to death on the floor, and no one knew—</p><p>Perhaps, this was how Harry wrenched himself out of the snake's mind and into the waking world. There was a moment's disorientation, then, yet again, to find himself in the darkened boys dorm of Gryffindor Tower, before he sat up, reaching under his pillow for his wand,, and rolling out of bed. This was not third year—there was no time for dignity. How did you go about contacting the professors? Perhaps, Hermione would know.</p><p>He crossed the room in utter silence, and pulled aside the curtains with a harsh wrench of the fabric itself.</p><p>"<em>Ron</em>!" he hissed, and Ron's eyes blinked open. Harry must have looked a right wreck, because Ron had almost immediately surged to his feet, joining Harry on the cold flagstones of the castle floor.</p><p>"What is it, Harry?" he asked, reaching out to grab his shoulder.</p><p>There was a moment where Harry considered, still, how much to say, and then he spoke in a rush.</p><p>"Last year, I had a couple of visions," he said. "That one time, in Divination—"</p><p>"I remember," Ron said, head bowed. Skeeter had definitely used that as fodder for her "Harry-the-crazy-juvenile-delinquent" stories. That she was disturbingly close to the truth was neither here nor there.</p><p>"I have had another vision, one requiring immediate action. If only—" he paused, as an idea occurred to him, and her ran back to his own bed. Ron followed, clearly at a loss, as Harry called back to him. "Ron, your dad's been attacked. He needs medical attention, <em>now</em>. Sirius Black," he added, unwrapping the mirror he kept in the pocket of his robes, and then setting the mirror on his bed, as he pulled his robes on.</p><p>It took a moment, but Sirius's face appeared, bleary and haggard, as if still half-asleep.</p><p>"Something wrong, kiddo?" he asked, but Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp twinge in his scar. Confirmation, if he needed it, that <em>Riddle</em> had something to do with this.</p><p>"You said that Dad has been attacked?" Ron demanded. "How? What happened?"</p><p>"He's on duty tonight, isn't he? Guarding whatever weapon it was that Mrs. Weasley didn't want you telling us about?"</p><p>Sirius was wide awake now, but his level expression gave nothing away. "Harry, you shouldn't—"</p><p>"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do," Harry hissed. "Mr. Weasley will <em>die</em> soon if the wound is not taken care of. How do I contact the rest of the Order?"</p><p>Sirius opened his mouth as if to say something, and Harry's eyes narrowed. He shut his mouth again, and then cleared his throat. "Leave that to me. You're <em>sure</em> this is another vision?"</p><p>"Superficially different from the one of last year. The one that so inspired you that you wrote a letter to Dumbledore about it."</p><p>Ron looked back and forth between the mirror on Harry's bed, and Harry. He sank to his knees. "<em>Dad</em>?" he repeated. Harry noted to himself that, if Mr. Weasley were to die, it would be the first Weasley family casualty, the first loss in <em>this</em> one of Thor's families. Then, he'd have lost a mother, a brother, <em>and</em> a father. A complete family, right there.</p><p>This was not a particularly kind thing to think, but it served another purpose—motivation.</p><p>"What of McGonagall?" he asked. If he could get her on his side, they could access the Headmaster's Office. As if anyone might even <em>possibly</em> listen to Harry's tale. McGonagall herself was a long-shot.</p><p>Sirius looked up into the mirror again, which he must have stood upright against something. He'd clearly been deep in thought, but he tapped on the mirror, the closest thing you could get to pointing at someone. "The Map will show you the stairway leading to the Gryffindor Head's suites. It isn't bespelled, except to repel those who have no business being there. You've got cause to climb the stairs, so it won't hinder you. Knock hard. McGonagall's a particularly heavy sleeper."</p><p>Harry nodded, trying to keep track of all that. Ron would be of no use. He was probably trying to incorporate this latest loss into his impressive list of all he'd already lost—even though, for the moment, Mr. Weasley was still alive.</p><p>"I'll spread the word as I can," Sirius promised. "Be careful, Harry. Don't let Ron do anything rash, and gather the Weasleys when you're done with McGonagall."</p><p>His face winked out of the mirror, and Harry wrapt it back in its protective paper, and stowed it back into his pocket.</p><p>"You heard him," Harry said, turning to Ron. "I think perhaps you ought to retrieve Fred and George, and return to meet me here. I <em>can</em> trust you not to do anything rash…right?"</p><p>Ron seemed to realise that there was no time to argue about this. He made for the door leading to the staircase that led to the sixth year boys dorms. He had two flights of stairs to climb, and Harry had one to climb, and four to descend. Unless the Twins were much harder to wake than Harry expected, Ron would doubtless meet him at Professor McGonagall's quarters.</p><p>He'd had insufficient time to figure out how to bypass the spells on the stairs leading to the girls dorms, which meant that Hermione and Ginny would just have to wait. He frowned at this realisation, but wasted no time in making for the door to the stairs leading down.</p><p>Even he was a bit out of breath after running down those four flights of stairs, and then climbing the surprisingly long staircase winding upwards to McGonagall's tower room. Remembering Sirius' instructions, he banged on the door, trying to strike a balance between remaining unheard and accidentally breaking the door down. That would likely not help his case. At least he'd noticed no adverse magic hindering his progress up the stairs.</p><p>"Professor!" he called, over and over again, lest banging on the door be insufficient noise. Even Ron would need <em>some</em> time to figure out a way to get…wherever it was that Arthur Weasley was. That he didn't know where this had taken place—that he knew even less than Harry, who was certain he'd seen that door with his own eyes, at some point—went far in preventing Ron from bursting into the corridor himself. But, then….there <em>was</em> that spell. The one to find people he cared about. The spell Mother had taught him.</p><p>Still….</p><p>"Mr. Potter, what is the meaning of this?" McGonagall demanded, in a tartan bathrobe and fluffy slippers. He blinked, momentarily taken aback, disoriented by her sudden appearance, and even by just seeing her wear anything other than her usual severe robes.</p><p>He shook his head, and refocused. "Professor, <em>please</em>. Mr. Weasley—he's been attacked, he needs medical care, as soon as possible. Hasn't Dumbledore told you that I have a certain connection with You-Know-Who? I witnessed Mr. Weasley being attacked by—" he paused, thinking back over what he'd witnessed. It was, even now, difficult to separate out the fact that <em>he</em> had nothing to do with it. His dreams of his past life both assisted and hindered his attempts to distance himself from the recent attack. But, he forced himself to think over what he'd witnessed, yet again. Not by Riddle himself. A proxy, an agent. One with fangs. Almost certainly "—by his pet snake, Nagini. You have to act quick, <em>please</em>."</p><p>Any argument that began with a plea might as well also end with one.</p><p>"Mr. Potter, I understand that this is a very stressful year—"</p><p>"It wasn't just a nightmare, professor!" he cried, and she raised her eyebrows, perhaps because he was interrupting. "I know the difference. Normal dreams are chaotic, incoherent, flowing from one thing to another—this was too structured, too <em>vivid</em>, too <em>logical</em> to be a dream. I know the difference between dreams and reality, professor. <em>This was real</em>."</p><p>The same topics seemed to keep coming up over and over again. Jealousy tears apart families. The believed traitor, prodigal son. The difference between truth and delusion.</p><p>"I must speak with the headmaster, professor. Once before, you refused to listen to me. Do you remember that night? I assure you, this vision is more faithful to reality than the plot that forced my hand then. I thought, perhaps, that you would help me. Very well, I see that I was wrong. I shall simply have to make my own way—"</p><p>"What happened, in this dream?" asked McGonagall, her voice softer, now. Unreadable. He glanced at her face, but the light of the torches flanking the doorway-entrance to her room cast deep shadows. Of the room beyond, little could be seen. None of the torches within were lit; it lay in almost utter darkness.</p><p>"Mr. Weasley was attacked by Riddle's pet snake," he said again, more emphatic this time. She sighed, exiting the room, and pulling the door shut behind her, locking it with a silent charm.</p>
<hr/><p>Ron came up the stairs towards them, as they were headed down.</p><p>"Harry," he began, glancing back and forth between Harry and Professor McGonagall. He was still wearing those too-small pyjamas. He didn't seem reassured in the slightest by Professor McGonagall's presence. Clearly, Harry had somehow gotten her on board. "Fred and George are waiting at the bottom of the stairs. I was unable to enter the girls dorms to wake Ginny."</p><p>Harry somehow managed to resist rolling his eyes—now was not the time—at this obvious statement.</p><p>Professor McGonagall waved her wand, muttering "<em>Exspecto patronum</em>!" A silver wisp appeared and immediately vanished. Harry's eyes narrowed, as he stared at it. His sixth and seventh senses were closed. He had no idea what she had done, but there had been no dementors nearby. Perhaps, this was another use of the Patronus Charm that no one had troubled himself with telling Harry about.</p><p>"Patroni are sometimes used to send messages," said McGonagall, in her usual, brisk, voice. "She will be down shortly."</p><p>At the bottom of the stairs, the bleary-eyed shapes of The Twins awaited. They looked too tired to have been made properly aware of the current situation. Harry resolved to tell them on the way.</p><p>McGonagall led them at her brisk, long stride across the common room, out the portrait hole, and down the many corridors between the Gryffindor Tower, and the headmaster's office. Harry did his best to explain matters to Fred-and-George, while Ron remained uncharacteristically silent and grim. Well he might!</p><p>Harry gave the Twins only the most abbreviated of summaries, too busy trying to recapture all the details of the dream, knowing by experience how quickly and utterly these things tended to fade upon awakening.</p><p>He thought he'd reviewed fairly well by the time they'd reached the headmaster's office.</p><p>Headmaster Dumbledore didn't seem willing to take his tale seriously, despite the mounting tension of the room, until Harry was obliged to confess that he'd witnessed the attack from the point of view of Nagini herself. It was a bitter taste on his tongue, admitting such, filled too much with the savour of older, sourer, more dangerous dreams. Ron was forced to step up beside him, again, rest a hand on his shoulder, his grip unnaturally tight, the first assurance that Ron needed only the vaguest hint of a looming threat to act.</p><p>Dumbledore turned grave and severe at the news, and turned to the portraits, hitherto assumed to be sleeping in their respective frames. Someone named "Dilys", another "Everard", and Sirius's infamous ancestor "Phineas Nigellus". The former two dispatched to the site of the attack, the other sent ahead to warn Sirius of their impending arrival. Harry did not interrupt, did not say that he had his own means of communicating with Sirius. Ron followed his lead.</p><p>"This must be done with a certain amount of subtlety," Dumbledore said. "Umbridge must not know that you have left your beds-she will try to stop you. She must not discover headquarters. Minerva, I will need you to head off Umbridge. Tell her any story." McGonagall nodded, and swept from the room. Dumbledore turned to the sleeping Fawkes. "We will need a warning."</p><p>He turned to Fawkes, who spread his wings wide. The cage door opened, and then Fawkes flew out, blazing in glory, and disappeared in a burst of flame. Harry crossed his arms in a fake pout.</p><p>"And, he didn't even say hello!" he said.</p><p>Everyone was too tense to respond. The reality of the situation had stricken home by the severity of the headmaster's reaction. Ron's grip on Harry's shoulder was painfully tight, as they waited. At last, the headmaster Everard returned.</p><p>"Well?" asked Dumbledore sharply. He'd asked him to use discretion, which made sense, if Arthur Weasley had been engaged in top-secret Order business, but it did not bode well for him receiving the attention he sorely needed.</p><p>He confirmed that Mr. Weasley had been found, and heightened everyone's anxiety by making it clear that his wounds had been deep, and he had not been conscious when he left. Then, Headmistress Dilys returned, very red in the face.</p><p>"He was still alive when they carried him in. He's a tough one," she said.</p><p>"'Still alive'," repeated Forge dismally. "But, that—that sounds—"</p><p>Ron's grip was painfully tight. He was not on guard for suspicious behaviour, now.</p><p>"Relax," Harry muttered, turning aside, slightly, to face him. "If it will reassure you—and incline you to restrain yourself from breaking my shoulder—I will look into the matter, myself."</p><p>Ron stared at him, eyes wide. Now, <em>there</em> was an offer. And, the end of December was not <em>that</em> far away. Mother might also be dragged into the fray….</p><p>But, perhaps there would be no need. They would have to see how tonight went, first.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have  been and will continue to be a bit scarce for the next month or so.  Holidays, and all.  Sorry!  Stay safe, everyone!</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Harry's Introduction to Hospitals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>See title.  Harry goes with the Weasleys to St. Mungo's to see Arthur Weasley.  They get lost, and lose The Twins.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First my computer dies, and then I get sick.  Sometimes, I swear that <i>life</i> is conspiring against me.<br/>I'll try to be coherent enough to finish replying to you guys' comments.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
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      <p>They arrived back at Number Twelve via (illegal) portkey. Harry stumbled and nearly fell, but Ron, who never failed to land well, caught him before he could, face still drawn and pale with concern. He was shaking. Harry might have made some rather insensitive and sarcastic comment, but he knew better. He would analyse what he'd learnt of the creation of portkeys, later. He'd already closed his seventh sense.</p>
      <p>Sirius was there to greet them, waiting in the kitchen. He ushered them to the table, and almost ordered them to sit. After a moment, the second batch arrived, consisting of Ginny, who had been left behind.</p>
      <p>"Harry?" asked Ginny, gaze drawn straight to him, as if he perforce had all the answers. "Wh—what's going on?"</p>
      <p>She sounded quite as hopeless and lost as second year, and his fist clenched—a rather painful involuntary reaction—at the reminder of that time.</p>
      <p>He didn't know what to say in response. Mrs. Weasley was probably at the hospital by now—or at least, as Dumbledore had said just prior to their departure, she doubtless already knew of Mr. Weasley's injury, owing to her unique clock. Or something to that effect. He was more concerned with recalling the sensation he'd had, just prior to their departure—it had felt almost as if there were a foreign energy nearby, although that was more a twinge in the vicinity of his mostly closed sixth sense than anything else.</p>
      <p>It bore with it the suspicion that perhaps these "visions" left a residue, a lingering impression of Riddle's influence. That spike of ill-will and enmity did not come from Harry. This was a troubling thought. Just how much influence did that residue have? Did he have a corrupted corner of his soul to go with his corrupted corner of his mind? If he were to look at the border of the forest surrounding Mother's cottage, would he find the blackened flower in bloom?</p>
      <p>But, for now, he pulled himself from such thoughts. He stared down at the table, as Sirius, with a sympathetic glance around the room, began doling out mugs of hot chocolate. He'd taken the opportunity afforded by this to leave the vicinity of the table, which was once more full of tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Harry even considered offering his assistance, just to escape, but he recalled Ron, trapped in some sort of in-between state, forced to confront his own identity, again. He should confront the matter once and for all, and have done with it, but Harry knew that expecting him to do that before it was absolutely necessary would most likely not work. That was Ron for you.</p>
      <p>For now, Harry realised that he had to fill Ginny in on what happened. She'd been late arriving to Dumbledore's office, and didn't have the details, such as they were, that Fred-and-George did.</p>
      <p>There were two ways to go about things: the gentle way, and the direct way. He considered everything he knew about Ginny, in those few seconds when everyone dithered, exchanging glances and trying to figure out how to respond, and whether they even should, given that Ginny had asked Harry specifically (and he was sure to have the best idea, wasn't he? His explanation to The Twins left a bit to be desired).</p>
      <p>Ginny was strong, and this was probably the sort of situation that would just sound worse if you tried to sugarcoat it. There were so many ways that that could backfire.</p>
      <p>"It's your dad," he said, turning to her. "You should probably sit down, too. This will come as a bit of a shock."</p>
      <p>Ron wouldn't look at him, but Fred-and-George shot him an incredulous look. Sirius was, of course, busy.</p>
      <p>Ginny sat, without needing further prompting. He hardly noticed that she took the seat next to him. "Sometimes, owing to a certain connection between us, I have…knowledge, concerning the actions of You-Know-Who. Visions, I suppose you might call them. Perhaps, you remember Skeeter's ridiculous article. I can say with authority that your dad was attacked by You-Know-Who's pet snake. They've brought him to St. Mungo's. We fled here to Grimmauld Place before Umbridge could head off our departure. Headquarters is safe, and closer to the hospital than Hogwarts, and Umbridge must not suspect its existence."</p>
      <p>He'd told her more than he'd told The Twins, which seemed to irk them. He just smiled and waved them off, and they didn't demand an explanation.</p>
      <p>"I see," Ginny said, and his heart clenched. She'd adopted the same, hollow blankness as everyone else in the face of this tragedy. Harry saw through it, but resolved to give her some space. He'd just thought of something he should warn Sirius about.</p>
      <p>And, yet…he hesitated. He would have expected Thor to straightaway make for the hospital to see what could be done (had that been what had happened at the end of first year?). It was second nature to assume that he'd somehow find a way to put himself into danger, in such a situation as this. He needed a watchful eye—but other Order members were surely on their way, and Fred-and-George would hardly let him wander off on his own.</p>
      <p>And Ginny…. Second year was impossible to forget. He remembered his shock at the realisation that he cared what became of her—cared about her for her own sake. Love, the opposite of apathy. And, there was nothing that he had to say so crucial that it couldn't wait. Perhaps, Ginny needed him more even than Ron.</p>
      <p>He cast about for something to say, any distraction, anything that would cut the tension thick in the air. Sirius hadn't helped anything by his snappy arguments against the Twins leaving—that about how Arthur knew what he was getting into when he'd joined the Order, and how they had to stay here, lest they call attention to headquarters, and their mysterious knowledge of the fact that Arthur had been injured at all. The Twins were still sulking, although they didn't much look it. If Ginny thought it strange that they were still here, instead of breaking out to visit their Dad at St. Mungo's, she didn't comment on it. She stared, brooding, at her hot chocolate.</p>
      <p>"Not the best way to start the holidays, but at least we've escaped Umbridge early," Harry said, with deliberate levity. Ron's fist clenched, threatening to break the comparatively fragile mug Sirius had given him. Harry shot him a glare which, of course, he missed. "Look, Ginny…" he began, trailed off, shook his head, and continued.</p>
      <p>She wasn't looking at him. The table as a general rule was looking at their mugs of hot chocolate, instead. He didn't know who was, and who wasn't, listening.</p>
      <p>"There's no use worrying about matters outside of your control—I know: easier said than done. But, think of it this way: your dad lived to escape….wherever he'd been stationed, and he's at St. Mungo's, now, under the care of the best d—healers in Britain. I doubt they're known for their incompetence. Madam Pomfrey regrew all the bones in my arm, second year, and she's just the school nurse. Imagine what sorts of skills the healers have! He will be alright."</p>
      <p>One way or another. Harry, if need be, would break into St. Mungo's. Hey, he could use the practice, anyway.</p>
      <p>"Yeah, you're right," she said, in that same, listless voice. "If anyone can help him, they can."</p>
      <p>Harry thought back to his dream, but everything had happened so <em>fast</em>. It <em>almost</em> surprised him that he could make any sense of it. Then, he remembered his background, on either side of the equation. <em>Then</em>, it made sense.</p>
      <p>Let's see: Nagini was a huge snake. She had proportionately larger fangs, and who knew what sort of venom they might contain? She'd attacked Mr. Weasley multiple times, leaving large puncture wounds in his chest. Without the venom, it was a simple matter of closing up the wound (and there were spells for non-magical wounds, although they didn't work on anything that large), and replenishing lost blood.</p>
      <p>But, the venom complicated everything. He didn't know how obscure whatever kind of snake Nagini was, was. He <em>did</em> know that all of his training would be insufficient to counteract it. As with the basilisk in year two, the healers would doubtless need a sample of Nagini's venom, or at least that of the same kind of snake, to make an antidote. Always assuming that she <em>had</em> some sort of supervenom. There was nothing he could do against that. Still….</p>
      <p>But, thoughts of second year recalled Ginny to mind. He knew that that blank listlessness wouldn't leave her until she'd had news, and knew whether to grieve, or to celebrate. She was in a sort of limbo, for the moment—neither here nor there.</p>
      <p>Ron glanced over in their direction, and then immediately glanced away. He was trying not to think, again. Typical.</p>
      <p>It seemed to take <em>years</em> before Mrs. Weasley barged into the house. She had had the sense not to ring the doorbell, despite the threat of Mrs. Black's screeching being past.</p>
      <p>Sirius was very solicitous, buzzing off to make another cup of hot chocolate. Harry was still drinking his cold cup.</p>
      <p>He didn't mind being ignored, overlooked. He was content to listen, feeling a bit awkward at being a spectator in the recent drama. But, how must <em>Ron</em> feel about it all?</p>
      <p>He glanced over at Ron, staring across the table as if he could read minds. Ron didn't respond. He seemed pensive, but he at last smiled again at the news: They'd been able to stabilise Mr. Weasley, although he'd lost a lot of blood. He should be up for visitors in a few days, and did Sirius mind if the Weasleys stayed—?</p>
      <p>"Not at all! It would be my pleasure!" Sirius cried, eyes alight, as he beamed round at them all. Everyone was in much greater cheer, now, save for Harry. This all required further study.</p>
      <hr/>
      <p>Mrs. Weasley stayed again at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, commuting back and forth between St. Mungo's and the Order Headquarters on a daily basis. What she was doing there could not be discerned; she refused to speak of her trips, but she looked rather antsy and drained whenever they saw her.</p>
      <p>One day, she explained that he was feeling much better, and was ready for visitors. The Weasleys rose as one to head off to St. Mungo's. Harry, Sirius, Remus, and Tonks (the latter two having joined them for the day's adventure as an escort, Harry was later to discover, along with Mad-Eye Moody) stood off to the side, as if to stay out of the way to speed their departure.</p>
      <p>"You too, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said, with a cheerful, friendly, sweet smile.</p>
      <p>"I?" asked Harry, frowning. It wasn't as if he were an <em>official</em> Weasley.</p>
      <p>"Arthur heard what happened. He wants to thank you for saving his life."</p>
      <p>Of course. Harry couldn't help glancing at Ron, who shot him a rather lost look in return. Well, what had Harry expected? Still….</p>
      <p>"Right," he heard himself say. He was wearing his old castoffs from the Dursleys, but he threw on a set of Hogwarts robes over them, as if for added warmth, or something. Mrs. Weasley didn't comment.</p>
      <p>He always was sure to attach the holsters for his wand to whichever robes he was to wear next. All that was left was to switch its location from his belt to the left-hand holster. Then, he came downstairs again, blushing at having kept everyone waiting. But, why would he have assumed that he was invited?</p>
      <p>Sirius, Remus, and Tonks seemed to have been forewarned. That was unfair, in a way all too familiar, and therefore not worth commenting on. Harry Potter's life, for you!</p>
      <p>An hour later, Harry sat in the waiting room with everyone else, contemplating the merits of a portal disguised as a store. Those two women had seemed as if they might have appreciated the non-existent store, had it been real. Didn't the fact that it had never reopened arouse any suspicion?</p>
      <p>He stood up to approach Ginny, who glanced up from where she was sitting, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. He sat down next to her.</p>
      <p>"While we're waiting," he said, with a forced smile, "I thought I might ask you what your impression was as to the energy of this place."</p>
      <p>He still remembered Mother's teaching, the nature of the energy and magic of places. St. Mungo's was full of magical energy. Even here in the waiting room, he could feel it, with his seventh sense as closed as it ever was. And, as he'd been helping Ginny to develop her seventh sense….</p>
      <p>"'Impression'?" she repeated, with a frown, and a furrowed brow. "'Energy'?"</p>
      <p>He shook his head. "Do you remember when we were practising spells, and you could feel how the magic flowed through you-that was how you learnt to control it."</p>
      <p>Her eyes lit up, and he sensed that he'd at least distracted her from worrying about her dad. "Oh, yeah!" she said, snapping her fingers. "You called it a 'seventh sense'!"</p>
      <p>She closed her eyes, knowing by now, after only two such meetings (which was not a bad learning curve, all things considered) how to reach for that sense of magic.</p>
      <p>She relaxed, worry lines receding, the tension leaving her body, as she almost <em>inhaled</em> the vibes of the hospital. "It feels…soothing. Lively-but not in the sense that you have to rush around doing things. It feels…peaceful. Calm. Safe. And it feels…" she frowned, searching for the right word. He saw her reach for it, four or five times. He waited, until she finally gave up. "It feels like life," she finished, at last. "I don't know how else to put it."</p>
      <p>She seemed personally offended by this shortcoming. "I think…everything will be alright. Most people who enter a hospital leave it alive."</p>
      <p>She smiled up at him, posture relaxed, now. "Are you going to keep dragging my lessons in where they don't belong?" she teased, with a grin.</p>
      <p>He blinked. "Such lessons belong everywhere," he said. "Particularly when they aren't expected."</p>
      <p>She just shook her head, and smiled at him, and he forced himself to look away.</p>
      <p>Harry paid very close attention to Mr. Weasley's injuries, in case he were called upon to fulfil his promise to try to heal Mr. Weasley. Unlike damage to the mind and/or soul, he knew how to examine damage to a physical body. He'd progressed that far by Mother's teaching, at least.</p>
      <p>He discovered that, whatever Nagini's venom was—it seemed to be an anticoagulant, amongst other things—it defied analysis. Of course, taught by his mother or not, healing would never be one of his specialties, and it was possible that Mother would have been able to figure it out. She had more experience, and more knowledge to draw from. He knew enough to tell that Mr. Weasley was losing more blood than he ought—the blood-replenishing potions (which he thought he should learn how to make, himself), were absolutely necessary, and the stitches were doing him good—most likely <em>because</em> they were non-magical.</p>
      <p>The danger wasn't in the wounds themselves. The danger was in the venom. But, if Mr. Weasley had made it this far, he would probably survive. It was, however, possible that he would never fully recover—or that such a recovery would take longer than the equivalent muggle injury…whatever that was.</p>
      <p>He left the room, much cheered and somewhat reassured, if barely in time to avoid Mrs. Weasley's declaimed tirade. The volume alone was overwhelming, and he'd forgot how loud she was. He couldn't help flinching and withdrawing into himself at the loud noise. Uncle Vernon had seldom been inclined towards physical violence, but it had happened more than once, and was always preceded by shouting. Harry had learnt to connect the two in his mind, even though shouting rarely led to physical violence. Mrs. Weasley did not sound very like Uncle Vernon at all, but Aunt Petunia had rarely raised her voice, making Uncle Vernon the only viable comparison.</p>
      <p>Also, of course, there was the simple fact that it was loud, and his hearing was sensitive of necessity. From an early age, he'd learnt to avoid the Dursleys whenever possible, after all.</p>
      <p>Then, The Twins had the bright idea to spy on the mini-discussion amongst the Order members behind the closed door. In the ordinary way of things, Harry quite appreciated The Twins' inventions, but right now, he wished they'd just left well enough alone. He <em>wasn't</em> possessed. He wished everyone would stop giving him suspicious glances.</p>
      <p>Well, everyone was giving him suspicious glances except for Ginny and Thor. Which meant that only Fred and George seemed suspicious, really.</p>
      <p>Ginny looked torn. Her earlier strength and assurance seemed to have drained away. Was she…<em>worried</em> about him? He could take care of himself! Only…he supposed incurring the suspicion of people whose opinions he valued was very different from holding his own against monsters—human, and otherwise.</p>
      <p>"Hey, now, Harry," began Ford, as if to shake himself from concerns about whether or not Harry were possessed. "What were you talking about in the waiting room? You know, with Ginny?"</p>
      <p>Harry shrugged. "Nothing important," he said.</p>
      <p>In other circumstances, he was sure, Ginny would have shot him an acidic glare. Right now, however, she seemed to be too worried about his reaction to what they'd overheard.</p>
      <p>Ron was not looking in his direction in a way that suggested that they were following similar trains of thought. Somehow, that made sense.</p>
      <p>"None of that," Ford insisted, as they drew away from the door in time to look as if they were thoroughly invested in the conversation before the door opened. "What's this about a 'seventh sense'?"</p>
      <p>"Nothing that you could learn," Harry said, determined to head this off. In truth, he had no idea whether or not The Twins could learn to use it, but he didn't <em>want</em> them to know, because knowing how to use their seventh sense would render more vulnerable his secret—and Ron's.</p>
      <p>"You're teaching Ginny!" protested Greg.</p>
      <p>Harry stuffed his hands into his oversized jeans. "Ginny has the ability. You don't. It's that simple."</p>
      <p>He wished that one of the adults, at least, would return to save him from this confrontation, but Remus had gone off to visit the new-made werewolf, and Sirius was one of the party in the room, as was Tonks, the only other adult whom he thought might see reason, given sufficient cause. He was on his own. Except for Ginny and Ron.</p>
      <p>"Leave him alone!" Ginny snapped. "Don't you think it's hard enough for him to be the odd one out amongst all us Weasleys? Ugh. Say, since they seem to be taking a while about this, why don't we go find something else to do while we wait? Take our minds off…everything." She glanced at Harry aside, as if he were a child needing watching. He didn't meet her gaze. He could feel Ron watching him, too. He wasn't <em>that</em> fragile!</p>
      <p>The Twins glanced at him, too, as if they were the only ones missing an important memo, but they agreed to Ginny's plan. Somehow, however, they managed to wander off whilst Harry had been thinking of other things. He only noticed when they reached the stairs that <em>seemed</em> to have been labeled as the exit for the fifth floor, and The Twins were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, they'd lagged behind—accidentally, or deliberately. They might even have pulled ahead. He wasn't entirely sure.</p>
      <p>Neither were Ron or Ginny, when he asked. Ginny said, "They're not lost, if that's what you're worried about. Let them get into trouble on their own time. They're probably just mad that you wouldn't answer their question. They already know that we were planning on stopping at the cafeteria; they'll find us when they feel like it."</p>
      <p>She pulled open the door, and went through. Harry followed her.</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Neville's Parents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ron, Ginny, and Harry meet Neville's parents and learn what happened to them.  Harry schemes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Talk about busy.  So, somehow I managed to not realise that I'd somehow never posted chapter eighteen (Role Reversal) here?  You might want to read that.  Some things might make slightly more sense with it.  At the very least, it's useful for future chapters.<br/>Yikes.  Sorry about that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room beyond was not the cafeteria. There was a pointless, short corridor, with a door at the end. Above the door was a sign bearing the label: "Dai Lewellyn Ward". In the manner that Harry had already observed in this hospital, this was not a terribly useful label. Were muggle hospitals similar? He thought he'd heard, somewhere, of different wings of hospitals serving different functions—perhaps on one of Dudley's shows—not that he'd seen any, but Dudley sometimes spoke of them….</p><p>Still, this was supposed to be the floor with the cafeteria. Somewhere, somehow, one or the other of those signs must be mistaken. He'd never get anywhere if he just wondered about it—</p><p>Ginny seemed to be following the same train of thought; before he could decide upon a course of action, she turned the handle of this next door, and walked through. Harry sighed, facepalmed, and followed, and Ron trailed after, with the greatest possible reluctance. Perhaps, he was thinking of events at the end of first year. Harry decided to give him the courtesy of not mentioning it; if it were true, it was hardly a good choice of topics for discussion; if false, then speaking of it would recall it to mind. Such memories were doubtless better let lie.</p><p>There was a right-hand turn, in another pointless mini-corridor, with a door almost immediately before them (right before the bend). But, around the bend, the wing opened up, abruptly, into a large, fairly open area. Beds were arranged in a neat grid, with plenty of room between, and curtains for privacy. It was very like the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts (which Harry could imagine in his mind's eye, he'd spent so much time there).</p><p>He was almost disappointed. As he stared about the room, taking in the general lay of the land,, Ginny reached back, without looking, and pulled him forwards.</p><p>"Don't block the door," she hissed. She turned her head to look at him, and smiled. She was putting on a brave face, again, trying not to show that she was still thinking about her dad (on the road to recovery, sure, but far from recovered) downstairs.</p><p>There were other matters she wanted to discuss, too.</p><p>She pulled him to the side of an empty bed, as Ron wandered into the room, as if expecting an ambush (well, at least he was being cautious, for once).</p><p>"<em>Harry</em>," she said, now sounding slightly hysterical. He would never understand her. Her mood seemed to change so quickly—"how did you know that I could—that I had that 'seventh sense' thing you mentioned to Fred and George?"</p><p>Harry blinked at her, and then cocked his head, glancing back at Ron's progress. He shrugged.</p><p>"I didn't. I was just lucky that you could."</p><p>She gaped at him for a moment. "You didn't <em>know</em>? But, you told Fred and George—"</p><p>Another shrug. "I lied," he said, indifferent. He continued to survey the room, how the nurses (or whatever wizards called them—Madam Pomfrey was a nurse, wasn't she?) bustled about, even bringing in Christmas gifts from what must have been friends and family, before these people had sustained their injuries.</p><p>This was most assuredly not the cafeteria. Which meant that it was the ward for "permanent spell damage", as the sign hanging on the far wall said. They should probably leave—</p><p>"But, you said—!" Ginny huffed, and glanced around the room, again. "Why would you lie to Fred and George? They <em>like</em> you. I've never seen them try to prank you—"</p><p>"They would not succeed," he said, as Ron stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowed at something on the far side of the room. Harry followed Ron's gaze. Was that—?</p><p>Ginny scowled, and crossed her arms. Her eyes flicked towards Ron, and then her attention returned, before Harry could make an escape, to Harry. "Why wouldn't you want to see whether The Twins had the ability?"</p><p>He smiled at her. "I have my secrets," he said. "Ones it would be better if they remained ignorant of. But, I wouldn't mind if you figured it out."</p><p>Ginny blushed scarlet, and her gaze dropped to her feet.</p><p>Harry took the opportunity to escape, joining Ron at the entrance. "Is that <em>Neville</em>?" he asked. Ron relaxed, and Harry rolled his eyes. "I wonder what he's doing here. Did something happen to his grandmother?"</p><p>What was the protocol for this? Did their being friends, after a fashion, mean that he was expected to go over, to "show support", or was this a private affair, for no one but family?</p><p>That woman seemed to be wearing a familiar green hat topped with a stuffed vulture. He thought he recognised the handbag, too. That must be Neville's grandmother, and she was healthy enough to be on her feet, hand resting on Neville's shoulder.</p><p>He glanced around the room again, how all the nurses seemed to be bustling about, the room a constant organised business. He decided that he hated hospitals.</p><p>He crossed the room, with Ginny still glancing down at her shoes, but regaining awareness, and Ron following, again, with no small amount of reluctance.</p><p>"Harry, perhaps we ought to give Neville some privacy. He has never mentioned coming to St. Mungo's before—"</p><p>A memory, sharp and clear, then, of a confrontation outside the Potions classroom, Malfoy mocking Harry, as he would, and <em>Neville</em>, unexpectedly, picking a fight. Harry stopped so abruptly that even Ron almost slammed into him.</p><p>Could it be? He glanced at the two occupied beds nearby. As he watched, a woman with long, white hair and pasty skin rose from her bed, reaching out a hand clenched tight into a fist, depositing something, dull and listless, into Neville's hand. He was shaking. He whispered something to her, and turned to the door, as if desperate for an escape, with only his gryffindor courage keeping him standing where he was.</p><p>Ron would never be subtle, and bright red hair is hard to miss. Neville noticed Ron and Harry immediately, and froze. He stood stock still, for a second too long. His grandmother followed his gaze in Ron and Harry's direction, as Ginny, finally recovered, her gaze fixed on the floor, and still beet red, was moving to join them.</p><p>Augusta Longbottom moved with stately grace over to where Harry was still standing, knowing that he was caught, and whether he'd chosen well or not, there was no going back on this.</p><p>Ron started fidgeting, full of restless energy. Harry imitated a statue. It worked for Hermione.</p><p>"Well, well, well. Friends of Neville, are you? You must be Harry Potter. Neville speaks very highly of you, young man," she said, which was, apparently, true, but what good did that do Harry, now?</p><p>He eyed the hand, outstretched, that Augusta Longbottom extended to him, and took it, with the greatest possible caution. CONSTANT VIGILANCE! She had an unsurprisingly firm handshake.</p><p>"You must be his grandmother," Harry said. "These are Ron and Ginny Weasley."</p><p>Ron somehow managed to stop fidgeting, to give her a respectful incline of the head, and to hold out his own hand to shake. Ginny, suddenly shy again, peered around Ron's shoulder, as if he were her (sort-of) human shield. Harry returned the earlier favour by yanking her forwards, into Mrs. Longbottom's sight.</p><p>"A pleasure to meet all three of you," she said. "I am Augusta Longbottom, Neville's grandmother—his father's mother, understand. I wish I could also have met your other friend—that witch, the best of your year. Will you thank her for taking such good care of Neville for me?"</p><p>Ron gave a stiff nod. Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean Hermione Granger? She <em>does</em> have a name, you know."</p><p>Even where Neville still sat at the white-haired woman's bedside, he still heard and tensed at Harry's admonition. Right. Harry was being pushy and rude.</p><p>Mrs. Longbottom smiled. "Yes, that's the one. Clever girl. Such a pretty name, too. Classical, if I'm not mistaken."</p><p>"From Greek mythology," Harry said, with a forced smile. He'd just remembered the centaurs again. It always seemed to happen at the most inopportune of times. What could he do about them, here and now?</p><p>Harry did not bring up Neville's borrowed wand. He wanted to be sure that Neville had the skill to use it well, or he'd lose all his confidence (probably) and end up being a dunce. His conviction that his greatest lack was having an unmatched wand was part of the reason for the speed of his improvement. It wouldn't do to push the thing.</p><p>Harry glanced over at the two beds, again. A man thin and frail, with bones protruding from his skin, lay in the bed next to that of the white-haired woman. Both of them had a sort of sense of premature age to them. The air around them felt heavier. Less soothing. He glanced at Ginny to see whether or not she noticed, but she was still too busy being shy.</p><p>"I know your parents," Augusta Longbottom was saying, with a cordial smile. "Good people. I'm glad someone has the spunk to stand up to that vainglorious braggart Malfoy. I heard what happened to your father. Give Arthur my best wishes. And you, boy—" Harry flinched, and her tone softened. "Easy, now. I mean only to say that the Ministry are printing a load of nonsense. I've believed you from the start. When I think about how fickle the public eye is…and you're so young. It must be difficult for you. Let me know if I can help you—in any way. I'm only an old woman, after all—the Ministry would never dream that I could pose any sort of threat."</p><p>"We're only fighting You-Know-Who, ma'am," Harry said, more than a bit subdued.</p><p>"Who are-?" Ron began, and then cut himself off, as if realising that he was being rude. Or, perhaps, realising that Harry was glaring at him.</p><p>"Neville, be a good boy and come say hello to your friends," Mrs. Longbottom barked. Harry winced. Neville was not a <em>dog</em>, at anyone's beck and call.</p><p>But Neville, reaching out to gently push the woman back down onto the bed, slowly rose to his feet, to trudge over to where Harry, Ron, and Ginny stood. Clearly, Harry had chosen wrong. Neville should have been given his privacy. They should just leave.</p><p>"Actually, we're in a bit of a hurry—we got lost, and Fred and George are at large here somewhere in the hospital—"</p><p>"'s okay, Harry," Neville said. He glanced up from his shoelaces, gave a half-hearted smile, and returned his gaze to the aforementioned shoes. "I should've told you before. I just, I didn't know how to—I didn't want—"</p><p>"Neville," Augusta said, in that tone of voice reserved for reprimand. She turned a steely gaze upon her unfortunate grandson. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never spoken of your parents to your friends?"</p><p>Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Right. Of course. He could almost feel Ron's shoulders slump, the way he was now seeking for the nearest escape route, lest he intrude on something so private and sacred as a familial bond, a family secret. Or, perhaps, he'd had enough personal experience with the turmoil and strife those bred for even a god's lifetime.</p><p>"Neville, you shouldn't be ashamed of your parents! They didn't give their minds and sanities so that their only son would be ashamed of them!"</p><p>"I'm not ashamed," Neville slurred. He was now looking well away from all everyone. "I just—"</p><p>Augusta Longbottom probably didn't even hear him. "My son and his wife were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers," she pronounced, with a distinct pride in her voice. Ron's gaze landed on Harry, before switching to Neville.</p><p>"We had no idea," Ginny gasped, voice quivering, as her hand rose to her mouth. Her eyes were very wide. Harry considered stomping on her foot. She was only making Neville feel worse.</p><p>"That's very brave?" Ron offered. Harry sighed, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.</p><p>"Shortly after You-Know-Who's defeat, a group of his more…devoted followers tracked down my son and his wife. They were aurors, you know, the cream of the crop. His followers used the Cruciatus on my poor son and his wife until they lost their minds from the pain. That was how Neville came into my care."</p><p>He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought she probably didn't announce this story to just anyone—or even anyone who mistakenly wandered into this ward when the Longbottoms happened to be having a reunion. It was probably only because Harry was who he was, and Ron and Ginny were just along for the ride.</p><p>And yet…a part of him couldn't help being <em>grateful</em> that this had happened. He had personal experience with the Cruciatus Curse—that was what had first driven <em>him</em> mad, after all. But then, too, there was something else. He knew from personal experience its substance and structure, the effects it had on the mind. The split personality he'd almost created back in first year had had a chance to analyse the Cruciatus Curse twice. And, he'd seen the effects on his mind, himself, discussed them with Mother. He knew that curse. He knew its effects, at least under a brief exposure. And, that meant….</p><p>He didn't know how to get into people's minds. That was his major stumbling block in healing Sirius. All the rest of it, however, was an unfamiliarity with dementors, how to undo the damage they'd done, and the fact that Azkaban had essentially stripped him of a decade of his life. It was a matter of a threshold, that, once crossed, could not be crossed again. The way home barred, progress thwarted.</p><p>And, perhaps this was no different…but he'd never suffered lasting effects from the Cruciatus before. If nothing else, it would give him an opportunity to figure out how healing a mind would work, in an environment where any success was progress, and failure was no loss. It probably took a particularly nasty sort of individual to see someone else's suffering as an opportunity. But, Harry couldn't help it.</p><p>He glanced over at the occupied beds, and considered. If he could find a way past that first hurdle…he didn't <em>like</em> the idea of invading someone's mind, but…if he could <em>fix</em> them….didn't Neville at least deserve a choice? The opportunity, perhaps, of Harry's work meeting with success? What if Harry <em>could</em> heal them? Would it be worth it to Neville for him to try?</p><p>He was not about to ask the imposing figure of Augusta Longbottom. She was the sort of person who was too set in her ways to readily change…and besides that, Harry had no desire to incur her wrath. And, how arrogant would it look, to claim that he even <em>might</em> be able to do what none before him had? Neville, at least, had some experience with Harry's unusual abilities, perhaps, to give him the benefit of the doubt….</p><p>Damage from the Cruciatus Curse had both physical and psychological effects. He knew that. Prolonged exposure doubtless damaged nerves, but the real danger was the pain. To gain a reprieve, perhaps it made sense to retreat into the depths of your own mind.</p><p>And, Harry had experience with wandering the depths of his own mind. He hadn't forgot the aftermath of the Quidditch of Doom, the year before last. If he could figure out how to invade someone's mind (the very last thing he'd thought he'd be the one to consider doing, but life, as he'd observed often before, liked laughing at him), then he might be able to bring them back. If that was all that had happened. And, that would be much more straightforward, given his research into the subject, than figuring out how to heal Sirius. Perhaps….</p><p>"They've been bedridden, here, for the last decade."</p><p>And, they don't even recognise Neville, then, Harry thought to himself. How much worse Neville's situation was than Harry's own. Harry had his older brother, and his mother—the two people he'd loved most from his past life. Neville had the ghosts of his parents—no, worse than that: their empty shells. Everyone pitied Harry, but…really, they should be pitying Neville. His early life must have been full of false hopes and unanswered prayers. Somehow, despite that, he hadn't grown up bitter and jaded.</p><p>Not like Harry.</p><p>That was when he made his decision not to ask Neville for permission—not to even tell him what he intended to do. If it worked, it worked, and he would deal with the consequences. If he fail…well, he didn't want to be the one responsible for dashing Neville's hopes, yet again. And, he could tell that there <em>were</em> hopes, just at a glance. Neville was an eternal optimist. Despite all the evidence against it, he still thought that there was a possibility that his parents could be cured. And, perhaps, if Harry could research glamour spells and means of accessing the hidden corners of a person's mind, there would be.</p>
<hr/><p>Christmas was a quiet affair, in spite of everything. Arthur Weasley made a full recovery, despite Mrs. Weasley's disapproval of the idea of stitches. He was as cheerful and amiable as ever, helping to quell any lingering ill-will that might ruin the holidays for the group as a whole. Hermione arrived a few days after they'd gone to visit Arthur Weasley in the hospital, saying that she had discovered that skiing was not her thing.</p><p>She took every opportunity to chastise Harry and Ron, and then troubled herself with finding out what they'd been doing during her absence.</p><p>"I haven't done anything <em>rash</em>, Hermione," Harry protested, rolling his eyes. "That's Ron's deal. I wouldn't want to infringe."</p><p>Hermione seemed somewhat mollified by the full story of how the Weasleys and Harry came to be spending the holidays with Sirius and Remus (and sometimes Tonks) at Grimmauld Place. Who knew what story she'd heard—Hogwarts was the ultimate rumour mill, but even members of the Order would hardly be foolish enough to admit the true events where just anyone might be listening. They'd probably made out that Harry was a seer (when Ron was much closer to being one), or maybe Ron, and that that was how they'd learnt of Arthur Weasley's injury in time to act. How they'd explained it at St. Mungo's couldn't be known.</p><p>"And they think you're being possessed?" Hermione asked. Harry scowled, folding his arms, and glancing around the room, before focusing a burst of localised sound-blockade.</p><p>"I'm not <em>possessed</em>, Hermione. It wasn't even a temporary possession. I'm unfortunately familiar with these things."</p><p>Hermione paled, glancing down at the floor. "R-right. Sorry. I—I forgot."</p><p>Which was probably a good thing. Harry shrugged, as if the entire thing didn't bother him, and glanced around the room again. No one seemed to be finding them suspicious. That was something.</p><p>"Still, if the Order thinks you might be—perhaps, Dumbledore does, too. Maybe that's why—that's why he's ignoring you."</p><p>So, she'd noticed, too?</p><p>"Dumbledore is ignoring Harry?" asked Ron, frowning. His speech was drawn out, as if turning over the idea along with the words. Perhaps, shaking them up together.</p><p>Harry and Hermione both turned to give him an incredulous glance. Harry shook his head, pressing his hand to his temple as if to ward off a headache, and glanced at the table, where Mr. Weasley was sitting down, with the help of (and much fuss from) Mrs. Weasley. And Bill. Who knew that Bill was a worrywart?</p><p>Harry paused to consider Hermione's idea. It did make some sense, but— "He had no trouble speaking with me in the aftermath of Riddle's return," he said, his voice carefully blank. Hermione glanced up at him, as if guessing that that were a front.</p><p>"He hadn't had the time to analyse the situation. Perhaps, when he turned over the potential repercussions and results of what happened, he realised that there was such a danger. I don't think he's trying to slight you—from what you've said, he has a great amount of respect for you. And, maybe-if—if <em>You-Know-Who</em> can read your mind, as you can read his—maybe he's trying to protect you."</p><p>Harry couldn't help the bitter laugh that wanted to be voiced at this pronouncement. "Ah, yes. Everyone wanting to protect me from the truth."</p><p>Even Ron flinched at that pronouncement.</p>
<hr/><p>Harry spent most of the remainder of Christmas Break in the library. Sirius and Remus seemed resigned to this fact, and even Tonks, who had spent comparatively little time with him, seemed unsurprised. Ron kept busy trying to ensure that Remus and Sirius survived the imminent war, which kept them out of Harry's hair, but also meant that there was no one to stand guard and ensure that no one interrupted. He wasn't sure that Sirius and Remus were even aware that he <em>was</em> researching, let alone <em>what</em>.</p><p>Hermione occasionally dropped in, to assist, or out of simple curiosity.</p><p>"No one's found a way to fix that kind of mental damage, Harry," Hermione insisted, sitting across the table from him, head buried in her hands. "I don't know why you think that you'd succeed when the best minds have failed."</p><p>Harry raised an eyebrow at her without looking up, and he <em>felt</em> her bristle. "Gee, I wonder why," he said, voice dripping in sarcasm.</p><p>"You can't fall back on—on <em>that</em> for everything!" she said, surging to her feet.</p><p>Harry blinked at his text, which was in Old English, so he had to guess what every third word would be in modern. Hermione was not making it <em>any</em> easier on him. "I haven't relied on it half enough," he corrected her. "I need the practice. And, using it in two specific instances hardly counts as 'using it for everything'."</p><p>Hermione was as sore of a loser as she was a winner. She stormed out of the library, and it took until Break was almost over for her to even offer her assistance, in a voice stiff and wooden.</p><p>Harry had not found an answer to how to bridge minds other than legilimency before Break ended.</p><p>Because, of course, that would end up being his sole recourse.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Where Mind Meets Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry's lessons in occlumency lead in a direction he didn't expect.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the last day before break ended, Sirius took him aside to give him a tiny bit of forewarning (not enough to <em>use</em>) that he was to have regularly-scheduled occlumency lessons with Snape, of all people, after his return to Hogwarts.</p><p>In a way, it made sense. Dumbledore would have had to keep enough of an eye on him to know that he hadn't been visiting the Sorting Hat, and learning occlumency was imperative. A regularly scheduled appointment with an actual person ensured that Harry couldn't back out. And, Sirius must have been informed at the last minute, given his stormy expression. Or, he'd been spending too much time around Ron.</p><p>"I'll be fine," he replied, unsure whether or not this was true, but unwilling to let on to Sirius, who was too good at reading him, anyway. "Private lessons from Professor Snape. Perhaps, I'll learn something."</p><p>Maybe having his mind read would help him make a breakthrough on his current project? He might as well look on the bright side. There was almost nothing going for him, this year.</p><p>"Err on the side of hope," Stephen would say. Stephen was the sort to find a way to do <em>anything</em>. Apparently, that was how he'd ended up becoming a sorcerer to begin with. His medical training had failed him, so he'd turned farther afield, and when he'd encountered rumours of magic, he hadn't been as quick to dismiss them as he might've been, had he not already met Harry and Ron. Of course, that was in the post-Invasion future, too. That had to have helped. Maybe. Harry knew how stubborn Stephen could be.</p><p>So, erring on the side of hope, Harry tried to see the bright side in all this. But, that seemed to be only that he might be able to make some headway in his current endeavours. And that, maybe, if Snape <em>happened</em> to stumble onto some of Harry's memories of before he turned ten, he might be inclined to sympathy. Mum said he hadn't had the best childhood, either.</p><p>Of course, if he stumbled into any of the myriad <em>other</em> memories….</p><p>Happy thoughts, right? Unfortunately, Sirius was inclined towards this more cynical, pessimistic outlook, perhaps on account of his prolonged stay in Azkaban. He was quite as much of a nag as Ron, insisting upon seeing Harry's two-way mirror to ensure he hadn't lost it, or something, making Harry promise to keep it on him at all times. It couldn't be clearer that he mistrusted Snape.</p><p>Remus, at the end of the killer bus ride (the <em>Knight Bus</em>? Really? Was Dumbledore trying to <em>kill</em> them all, or something?), also took Harry aside, to insist that Sirius, who hadn't been able to bear coming to see them off, wanted Harry to take his lessons seriously, that occlumency was important, etc., etc., and Harry barely paid attention.</p><p>"I know that, Professor," Harry said. "The both of you worry far too much about me. I can look after myself."</p><p>"What if he learns—?" Remus began, bringing up the very matter that Harry <em>least</em> needed to be reminded of.</p><p>"Then, he will know better than to tell anyone," Harry said, with an ominous smile that had Remus back hastily away, bumping into Tonks in an uncharacteristic role reversal. She looked as if Harry had just made her day, beaming at him as she tugged his trunk over.</p><p>That was not how events unfolded, however.</p>
<hr/><p>Hogwarts quickly settled back into a familiar routine, almost as soon as they returned. Classes resumed, Dumbledore ignored him, Snape did his best to make Harry miserable, but his attempts paled in comparison to Umbridge's. You might almost get the impression that she'd spent the entire break thinking up ways to make Harry's life even more miserable.</p><p>Harry barely even <em>noticed</em> Malfoy, next to that. He left the feud between the feuding families, for once; Ron could more than hold his own.</p><p>He spent most of his free time working on the Defence Association, or training Neville or Ginny. What remained was devoted to his research, and attempts to shore up what he recalled figuring out about occlumency.</p><p>But, nothing ever worked quite as it was supposed to, around him. Not even occlumency. Oh, sure, the Sorting Hat had managed well enough, but it was a relic from the time of the Founders, for one thing, and an inanimate object void of volition, for another. Professor Snape could be counted on to vent his ire by tormenting Harry as best he could, and exploiting any little weakness that Harry revealed.</p><p>He couldn't read Snape's honesty, so he was kept constantly on his toes. But then, too, Snape was smart, could read <em>him</em>. An imbalance of power, slanted against Harry. A recipe for disaster.</p><p>It was only a matter of time before Harry's mental shields fragmented and broke. It took three of these sessions before that happened. The first two times, Snape had grown ever more irate, eyes narrowing into slits over the course of the hour as he failed to breach Harry's shields, doubtless wondering why Dumbledore had set him this task at all.</p><p>But, all the extra work Harry had <em>finally</em> elected to put into practising this was nothing next to Snape's decades of experience with shielding his own mind (and reading those of others?). A master occlumens, Mum had said. A master legilimens, Dumbledore had said via Sirius. And, Harry was particularly susceptible to mind magic—how could he not be, when his mind was full of holes, from both <em>before</em> and <em>now</em>?</p><p>Desperation drove him to do his very best. He knew that he'd neglected this study—had <em>deliberately</em> forgotten, no matter what he'd told himself, because he was aware of his own vulnerability. Part of him still didn't want to admit his weaknesses, but that was nothing next to the "show no weakness" mentality, and also….</p><p>Fear. He knew what had happened the last time he'd been exposed to what had to be considered mind <em>magic</em> over an extended period of time, and even telling himself that this was <em>different</em>, that this was a shield against <em>that</em>, did nothing to allay his fears. He could lie to himself very well, but he wasn't as good at convincing himself of the truth.</p><p>Now, he was paying for that. Because, Dumbledore was absolutely right about how important it was to shield his mind. And, he should have realised that viewing events through the eyes of Riddle's pet snake was a clear sign that their souls were too proximate, to a dangerous degree. But, with so many other thoughts to occupy his mind…well, he could tell himself easily enough that it had slipped his mind.</p><p>In Harry's first "Remedial Potions" class, Snape had tried several times to pierce his mental defences, with only limited success. Cracks had appeared in his mental wall, but he <em>had</em> been practising. The second session, Snape had redoubled his efforts, but Harry had had the past week to practice—a few minutes, before bed, although how that was supposed to guard him when he was asleep, he couldn't begin to guess, and he hadn't known about the lessons until January; he'd have to wait 'til end of month to ask his Mum.</p><p>Not that she'd know, either. She'd never studied occlumency.</p><p>Now, here he was, for the third session (no escape), worn and more ragged than usual. Umbridge was up to her usual tricks, and it was only a matter of time before she realised that he'd sooner suffer her torture than endanger the students of Hogwarts, who were now (sort of) under his protection, by denying a very dangerous reality. He suspected that she wasn't pushing at that particular wound only because she was trying to find a less politically-charged one to attack—one that wouldn't make Harry look the part of the sacrificial lamb to his supporters. One that painted him in the worst possible light.</p><p>The worst part was, he knew that those existed. He knew he had certain "buttons" independent of Riddle, that if Umbridge happened to hit on one….</p><p>Meanwhile, she'd settled for nettling him with a variety of different strategies. She knew that he was friends with Hagrid; that line of attack had borne insufficient rewards for her tastes. She pursued other avenues of attack, and contented herself with Harry's wary caution, in lieu of a response.</p><p>Ron seemed to have decided that she was between Thanos and the Dursleys on the list of people he needed to kill. Harry had told him that Umbridge deserved worse than death.</p><p>To his lasting shock, Hermione had agreed, and they'd spent an alarming amount of time bouncing off ideas as to what fate, exactly, suited her, but coming up empty. As Hermione's ideas were the most alarming (strip her of her magic and then send her into the Forbidden Forest? Find a way to turn her into a house-elf this doubled as a <em>Spew</em> lecture, which both he and Ron duly ignored? Strip her of magic, feed her a love potion, and make her marry a muggle?) she was put in charge of finding a fitting punishment for Umbridge.</p><p>Harry had other matters to attend to. But, that didn't meant that he didn't feel the lasting effects of such prolonged anxiety. Stephen said something about "cortisol", whatever that was. It was part of his lecture on how Harry needed to learn how to relax.</p><p>Harry had all knowledge of Stephen, at least, set behind three barriers, two of them permanently erected in his mind, barricaded off so well that even Snape wouldn't be able to access them before Harry could shove him back out of his mind. Unfortunately, his memories of Asgard, and the future, encompassed too great a portion of his mind to protect, thus. Which, in turn, meant that they were all the more liable to be found by Snape, if he breach Harry's defences.</p><p>Desperation was what had carried Harry through the first two sessions—that, and his extended experience with keeping focus for the <em>other</em> kind of magic. (Had he not been broken by Thanos, he would likely have been very <em>good</em> at occlumency, he mused to himself at one point.) But, they could only last so long, could only bring him so far, before they, too, failed him.</p><p>Said failure befell him on the third session, because three is a magic number. Or, because of Umbridge.</p><p>She'd sat in again, as she always did, in Divination, seeming to find Harry's defence of Trelawney intriguing. It was possible that part of the reason that Trelawney was on probation was <em>because</em> Harry had defended her (although how that rumour had come to Umbridge, were that the case, could not be known).</p><p>Regardless, "Remedial Potions" days were always overfull of Umbridge's nastiness. He was sure that the only reason she didn't join him, Ron, and Hermione at the Gryffindor Table was that she hadn't thought of enough of an excuse. She settled for "accidentally" running into him. And, antagonising his fellow gryffindors.</p><p>Everyone in Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw hated her anyway.</p><p>Now, here he stood, an hour before his detentions ordinarily began. (He wasn't on a set, at the moment, although that could change at any time, Umbridge being Umbridge.) His dreams of the night before had been full of darkened corridors and bitter frustration, Trelawney had bought herself some time by feigning a prediction of his imminent demise (it couldn't have been more obviously fake; she was in no state to be making true prophecies), and that had given an excuse for Umbridge to single him out, asking his opinion on the "prophecy"—that was, the false pronouncement just uttered.</p><p>He told her that the future was a highly malleable thing, and that the truth or falsity of Trelawney's prediction could hardly be judged so prematurely. Ron couldn't decide whether to be pleased that Harry seemed to be taking his own possible death seriously, or vexed that he sounded so indifferent. But, Umbridge had not gotten what she wanted out of Harry <em>or</em> Trelawney, which was a small victory that did nothing to overpower the drain of extended exposure to such an…evil woman.</p><p>He had no quidditch to clear his mind; his only outlets in an already high-pressure year were the D.A., and his private tutoring.</p><p>And to add to these stresses: <em>Snape</em>.</p><p>"I'm sure that you are aware of procedure by <em>now</em>, Potter," Snape drawled. "Close the door."</p><p>Harry closed the door, and Snape locked it, from a distance, with some sort of nonverbal spell. Sometimes, Harry felt an unjustified animosity towards the existence of nonverbal spells. The only way to figure out their inner working was to open his seventh sense, and he'd never dare to do that under such circumstances as these.</p><p>Particularly since Snape tended to use the moment that Harry was locking the door to build himself up (in whatever way necessary) for legilimency, and he <em>always</em> exploited that small moment of distraction to cast the spell as Harry was turning back around.</p><p>By now, if he hadn't guessed that Snape would use such underhanded tactics before, he would have known to expect it. Harry didn't begrudge Snape his tactics, of course. Not only would that be highly hypocritical of him (which was not generally an impediment), but it was highly doubtful, or at least didn't clash with Harry's own experience, which was that Riddle would give him such a reprieve. Snape was preparing him for such an eventuality in just the same way that Harry intended to prepare his "students". He could respect that.</p><p>That didn't mean he <em>liked</em> having anyone try to invade his mind. Because this was partly a test of his reaction time, he erected the mental shields he'd used at the Quidditch Match of Doom the moment he felt <em>something</em> graze against his mind.</p><p>Snape staggered back, and then set his feet, narrowing his eyes, and tried the spell again. Harry was still at the point where he had to devote all of his focus towards maintaining those shields, which put him at something of a disadvantage. He needed his awareness—there was a similar feeling to this as there was to using his seventh sense, the sense he avoided using on a regular basis due to sheer sensory overload. It was even more familiar from all of his experience with the Sorting Hat.</p><p>When Snape failed to find any weaknesses in Harry's superficial defences, he just bent his mind towards the goal with greater fervour. His intent grew sharp, pointed and tipped with steel, it bored towards Harry's mental walls with the precision and power of a drill.</p><p>Drills. The Dursleys. His focus faltered. Just for a moment.</p><p>Last week, Snape would have given him a moment to recover (half a moment). This week, he was trying to make this as lifelike and realistic as possible. He pressed the attack, took advantage of Harry's momentary distraction. Harry tried to use his narrow point of focus to drive Snape out, and instead managed to pull <em>himself</em> into his own mind after Snape.</p><p>His mind looked very different from his soul. Or, what he'd seen of his soul, when it was (somewhat) whole, which was limited to Mother's cottage, and the woods around it.</p><p>The first thing he noticed was that it was dark, and full of glowing white hallways and corridors. He stood in an entryway of sorts, only there was no door leading in, and he knew, somehow, that none of the doors he would encounter would lead out. There was no escape from his own mind.</p><p>Professor Snape was there, too, but, unlike Harry, he hadn't landed on his feet. Instead, he'd fallen back against a nearby wall, which had kept him from falling over backwards, but which might mean that he'd hit his head. If brain injury were even possible, when you were inside someone else's mind.</p><p>"Professor Snape," Harry said, extending a hand to help him up. Snape narrowed his eyes, gazing down at the outstretched hand.</p><p>"Potter?" he asked. The uncertainty in his voice gave Harry pause. Perhaps, it wasn't just that Snape was bent over double, perhaps Harry <em>was</em> taller.</p><p>"This <em>is</em> my mind," Harry told him, nonchalant, as if this sort of thing happened every day. In Harry's life, it practically did.</p><p>Harry glanced down, and was unsurprised to find the familiar armour there. Of course. Somehow, he knew that that didn't even mean that Mother was nearby. He remembered, with sudden clarity, that his waking self had given a variety of different names to that part of his mind that he'd disavowed—intuition, subconscious, Loki.</p><p>All that had happened was that he'd temporarily merged with a part of his own mind, then. He could handle that.</p><p>Snape kept his eyes narrowed, and levered himself back up into a standing position. "This is the armour that mystifies the Dark Lord, then?" Only Professor Snape could manage to sound so dismissive of such a feat of magic.</p><p>Harry stared him down, but gave no answer. "Tell me, Professor: with whom do your loyalties lie? Do not think to lie to me within my own mind. It was your own mistake to come here. Here, I am able to do <em>anything</em>. Do not test me."</p><p>He knew that he was speaking the truth—Snape might be able to evade his lie-detecting ability in the outside world, but no one could lie to him within his own mind, save for its residents. And a resident, Snape was not.</p><p>Snape seemed to realise that Harry meant it. His sneer fell. "I am a <em>spy</em>, Potter. A double agent. My loyalty, if it is to anyone at all, is to the Headmaster. Why else would I attempt to teach you occlumency? Use your brain."</p><p>"I would have greater care how you addressed him in whose mind you are for the moment trapped, Professor. Tell me this: why serve Dumbledore, when the Dark Lord offers you power?"</p><p>Snape hesitated, but seemed to realise that he was at Harry's mercy.</p><p>Ah, yes, that word again.</p><p>"There are more important things in the world than power, Potter," he said. In the manner that might be considered to typify Slytherin House, he was trying to maintain a façade of implacable composure. Harry could respect that. He'd said as much to Sirius and Remus, last year.</p><p>"Name one," Harry said, cocking his head, and staring Snape down. Snape looked momentarily taken aback. Harry Potter was doubtless the very last person he expected to say such a thing. Oh, well.</p><p>"Friendship," Snape conceded, at last, sounding thrice as wary, as if he'd just exposed his back to an enemy.</p><p>Harry nodded. "'Friendship'," he repeated. "I see."</p><p>But, nothing had rung false. He frowned down at the floor, for a moment. Snape had as good as confessed that <em>Mother</em> was the reason that Snape was going through so much trouble. Why was she worth so much to him?</p><p>Meanwhile, Professor Snape surveyed his surroundings, the glowing white walls, the empty black void of the floor (surely not Thanos's influence), and two or three doors visible even from here.</p><p>Not all of the walls were glowing. The wall to Harry's left was a deep scarlet. There was a rusty door set into it, halfway down, just before the contours of the irregularly-shaped room before them cut it off from sight. Snape sneered at it, and set off into the hidden unknown passage to Harry's right. Little about it could be seen before it turned around a bend, and the main, glowing room cut it from sight.</p><p>This was the sort of place that begged for a map. And, yes, he knew that legilimency was all about extracting information from its victims' minds, but that didn't explain why Snape, finding himself in an unfamiliar situation, nevertheless wandered off on his own. Perhaps, it was shock.</p><p>Well, there was nothing else for it but to follow, and attempt to keep Snape out of trouble. If he was his subconscious, then that meant that he must know the lay of the land, right?</p><p>He did. He knew it so suddenly that he almost lost his balance and fell. That would have been most undignified. But, he kept his footing, which was what mattered. That and the direction in which Professor Snape was headed—the corrupted corner of his mind. He <em>would</em> head in that direction.</p><p>Harry caught him up in time to block him from opening a steel door covered over in chains and spikes. Was it even possible to open that door without injury? Harry thought not. He spread his hands far apart, blocking the way with his body, and preventing Snape from reaching the doorknob. His posture was deceptively casual, as if he barely noticed Professor Snape's folly, and his hands were instead spread in welcome.</p><p>"Not this door, Professor," he said.</p><p>"Are you hiding something from me, Potter?" Snape asked. Harry had to respect his tenacity at managing to maintain his condescension even in such circumstances. A green glow surrounded Harry's body, a shield, one that Snape could not hope to disable, here within Harry's own mind.</p><p>"Many things, Professor." He paused, cocking his head, with a slow smile that had Snape taking a step back, not seeming to realise it. "My mind is a very dangerous place. I would not want you to become lost."</p><p>"Slytherin colours, Potter?" asked Snape, as if he weren't listening. Harry's eyes narrowed. He <em>hated</em> being ignored.</p><p>"<em>My</em> colours, Professor. They were mine first, after all."</p><p>Snape looked more than a bit perplexed by this, which made sense. What could he possibly make of Harry's statement? But, he remembered saying something similar at the graveyard, so there was no point in not saying it again.</p><p>"I am in charge here," Snape tried, with his trademark sneer. Harry raised an eyebrow, and crossed his arms. This was Harry's mind. Snape was anything <em>but</em> in charge.</p><p>"That door holds at bay a threat beyond your ability to combat. My brother is not here to protect you, and even he would have trouble defeating it. Leave the door."</p><p>He straightened up by pressing back against the door. It hurt, but not as much as he'd anticipated. Perhaps, the armour—</p><p>Snape tried to reach for the doorknob again, but Harry caught the hand before it could even try to get around him. What was he thinking?</p><p>"You are not a Gryffindor, Professor. Please exhibit <em>some</em> sense."</p><p>"What is happening? Why are you here, my son, and before the allotted time?"</p><p>Harry started, and his gaze snapped in the direction of the voice. Snape went completely still. Harry thought that he wasn't even breathing. Did he need to, here in Harry's mind?</p><p>"Mother," Harry whispered. He looked down the complicated corridor around the glowing room. Mother was at a dead end, framed in a doorway wooden as the door to her cottage. Light streamed out behind her.</p><p>Harry shook his head. "…<em>Mum</em>?" he asked. He knew his choice of names was important, here. Professor Snape stared dead ahead, at the door, as if he'd been petrified.</p><p>She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "<em>Severus</em>?" she asked, with understandable incredulity. Professor Snape's bowed head slowly turned in her direction, where her favourite powder blue dress faded into the blue blouse and jeans Harry'd seen her wear once before. "Harry, why is he here?"</p><p>"Occlumency lessons," Harry said, keeping it as succinct as possible. "Dumbledore thought it best—"</p><p>"Bring him here," Lily ordered. "This doorway is as far as I can go. I can't enter your mind, proper. If you're okay with it, we can talk in the cottage."</p><p>Professor Snape still didn't respond. He was staring at Harry's mum as if he'd forgotten the existence of words. There was something to his expression, a desperate, wistful longing. Harry felt he was intruding into a private moment, which was absurd. This was <em>his</em> mind.</p><p>"You—you <em>can't</em> be Lily," Professor Snape said. His voice was very rough, and scratchy. For the first and only time, he reminded Harry of Sirius.</p><p>"Harry," Lily urged. Harry shook himself, and clamped a hand around Professor Snape's upper arm. There was no gentleness to his grip.</p><p>"What is the meaning of this, Potter?" Snape demanded, his gaze finally leaving Lily. Harry just smiled, because he knew that that would irk the professor most. He was wondering the same thing.</p><p>Harry managed to drag Snape over to the doorway, mostly because Snape was in too much shock to put up more than a token protest until they were almost there.</p><p>"You're not Lily Evans," he said, voice heavy with vehement accusation.</p><p>"Then I have no idea what you did at the end of fifth year, or why you weren't on speaking terms with her when she died," Lily said. "Come on. Don't be an idiot, Sev. Most people don't <em>get</em> this kind of second chance."</p><p>Professor Snape stared. He seemed to have forgotten how to move, again.</p><p>"How are you here, Mum?" Harry asked, cocking his head. He wanted the answer to that question as much as his professor did.</p><p>"Memories are places where mind meets soul. Legilimency accesses memories, I suppose. So now, we're in the corridors of your memories. But, if I take a step further, I'd be in your <em>mind</em> proper—the thing that connects your memories. Or, at least, I assume that's how it works. A little help here, Sev?"</p><p>Professor Snape continued to be unresponsive.</p><p>"Your cottage is in my <em>soul</em>, and not my mind," Harry said. "How are we to bring him across?"</p><p>She crossed her arms, and stared down at him. "Which one are you?" she asked.</p><p>He shrugged. "It's complicated. Both, I suppose."</p><p>"You <em>would</em> manage that," she agreed. "Consider memories a sort of—"she hesitated to use the word, but didn't seem able to find a better one, "—<em>bridge</em> between mind and soul. If you can cross it, so can he."</p><p>He didn't ask if he could. This was <em>his</em> mind. Instead, he almost <em>shoved</em> Professor Snape through the doorway, and then followed.</p><p>At the end of a corridor of glowing white walls was another door. Professor Snape had, with seeming reluctance, shut his eyes, and allowed Harry to lead him through the corridor, and Lily opened the door at the far end. It exited into a room Harry had never before seen, one with a vaulted ceiling, and a single window looking out on the garden behind the house. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all of cedar, and boxes and chests were packed haphazardly around the room.</p><p>"Stay here for a bit, Harry. I think there are photo albums in one of the boxes. This shouldn't take long, but if you get bored, you could go back to the nursery, or look around the second floor. But, please, we'll be discussing some things you shouldn't hear. Don't try to listen in. Will you do that for me?"</p><p>He turned to her, narrowing his eyes. The entire person of Professor Snape, as he related to Harry's Mum, was complicated and thorny.</p><p>But, he had the sense, the suspicion, that this was the sort of private matter he was better off not spying on. Anyway, if Professor Snape ever discovered that he'd eavesdropped, that would be <em>very</em> bad for Harry. The man was vindictive as it was, and he had the sense that—just maybe—Mum was trying to fix that. Besides, what could they discuss that Harry couldn't find out in other ways?</p><p>"I promise," he said, expression softening. His mother had an air that soothed ruffled feathers, and served to calm him, to ground him, keep him rational, when that was often a goal far out of reach. Professor Snape looked more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him.</p><p>Mother smiled at both of them, and held out a hand for Professor Snape. "Come on, Sev, let's talk! But, you need to open your eyes, or you won't know where to step when I lower the trapdoor."</p><p>She <em>laughed</em>. Professor Snape froze, once again, and Lily reached down to grasp the handle folded into the floor, and pulled up, sending a slatted rope ladder dangling down.</p><p>She turned back and waved at Harry with a smile. "I'll be okay, Harry. Don't worry about me."</p><p>He hadn't been worried until she'd said that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. The Human Lily Evans</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry in the attic learns more about his mother as she was when she was human.  Meanwhile, she talks sense to Professor Snape.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry obeyed his promise, staying up in the attic, where there was plenty to interest him, not least of which the complete absence of the door through which they'd initially entered. The boxes were labeled; the chests were not. It was just as well that the photo albums were in one of the boxes. Hadn't he once thought that he might be able to find some photo albums even here in Mother's cottage, within his soul?</p><p>But, before he sought for that particular box, he sat on one of the chests, for want of a better place, and considered why Mum had done what she had—why she had brought Snape to this, her safe haven. But, there was plenty of ground outside her cottage; he knew that beyond the woods, the lay of the land changed—she had no authority or control over it. There was a road through the woods that led <em>out</em> of his soul.</p><p>In his mind, they'd been boxed in with walls—walls that he rather suspected were his conscious mind's attempts to keep Snape out, which had activated just before they'd both been pulled in. With the active part of his mind trapped <em>inside</em> his mind, there was no way to take those walls down. Mother had found the workaround.</p><p>And, she'd wanted to talk to Professor Snape for some time, regardless. Here in her cottage, she might possess abilities she'd lacked on the threshold. She'd seemed less…<em>solid</em>, outside. Perhaps, her magic was more limited, and she needed it to convince Professor Snape of her authenticity. And, of course, depending on how she explained things, there was no real reason for Professor Snape to think that he could gain <em>anything</em> by perusing the symbols of Harry's subconscious soul.</p><p>Mostly, though, he suspected that Mother had just wanted to provide the only escape route that she could think of, and had taken the risk—with Harry's permission—to evict the both of them. The opportunity for closure, for events long past, was a bonus, and not the end itself, although he knew that his Mother wasn't infallible, and probably capable of being selfish, in some ways. And Lily Evans, what remained of her, was only human.</p><p>Having settled this in his mind, he set to analysing the room that they had arrived in, for any signs as to how the door had appeared, or disappeared. But, as he was eventually forced to conclude, this was <em>his Mother's</em> corner of his soul. Perhaps she'd made the door appear, temporarily, when she'd realised that something had gone wrong. Perhaps, she hadn't even realised whither it led. And, when she'd had no more need of it—</p><p>But, why here, in the attic? The answer to that came clear, as he wandered, looking at the labels of the various boxes. The attic was a storage area for her memories. There might be others—he still recalled the forbidden basement, and the nursery, naturally, but attics tended to be places where people stored their belongings. It made sense that this place, the one in which he now stood, <em>was</em> the corridor that he and Professor Snape had passed through, as well as being the doorway in which Lily had stood. He hadn't really gone anywhere at all.</p><p>He was in his mother's memories, now, and not his own. His memories had been left alone—Professor Snape had not had so much as a glimpse of them. Which was almost a pity: Harry had to wonder how he might have reacted to Aunt Petunia. Or, if he permitted himself a certain degree of pettiness: how would he have reacted to Harry's memories of Hallowe'en 1981?</p><p>And, it seemed still a bit unjust that Professor Snape meet Mother before <em>Ron</em>. Who had grieved her loss longer, after all?</p><p>When his thoughts had settled, he set to examining the boxes, looking for the photo albums Mum had mentioned. She must have had some purpose to suggest them, in particular.</p><p>He was very much aware of the fact that he didn't know what lay in any of the chests—it could be <em>anything</em>, including things he'd much rather avoid seeing. Probably, there was nothing <em>dangerous</em> in them, although…just how much did Mother know of what was up here? But, doubtless, the trunks and chests belonged to her previous lifetime, and the boxes were from her more recent one.</p><p>There was one labeled "boardgames", and several labeled "books" that he considered opening. But, those might well be only her memory of all the books she'd ever read. (How literal were the symbols of subconscious language?) She hadn't <em>forbidden</em> him to riffle through her belongings, which somehow made the idea that much the less tempting. Besides, <em>why</em> had she chosen the photo albums in particular?</p><p>They were a loophole, such as only someone as clever as his mother could manage. A couple of the albums were protected by a prickly shield, which was mildly painful to try to open. He knew he was being steered away from those (or rather, that there were protections placed upon them, at some unknown time, to ensure that he knew not to access them).</p><p>Some of them were not protected thus. And, they contained pictures—moving photos, in the manner usual in the wizarding world. The first album contained images of a rather plain blonde girl, about seven years old, doing things like playing dolls and house with her unenthusiastic younger sister. It was surreal. She told stories, too, reading from children's books with pictures of dragons and wizards to an enthralled Lily Evans.</p><p>Harry had to set it aside. It seemed impossible. His <em>mother</em> couldn't have <em>ever</em> been….</p><p>He reached for another one, and understood. At least, a little.</p><p>The first thing he realised was that his mother's accidental magic included the ability to <em>fly</em>, which made him remember his own accidental magic. He'd managed to destroy some of the Dursleys belongings completely on accident, and without knowing it, regrow his hair in a single night, turn a teacher's wig blue, and apparate (that was apparation, right?) to the school roof.</p><p>And, cause an enormous pane of glass to vanish. And, sustain himself on little food, doing backbreaking labour when he should have died of malnutrition (Stephen <em>had</em> to point out these things). And, unlock his bedroom door, and even his cupboard, before that, a few times. And then, he'd taught himself to use magic <em>deliberately</em>, which had rendered wizarding magic less useful, for awhile, but he'd then fallen into denial, and set the <em>other</em> magic aside….</p><p>Still….</p><p>In the next album that didn't shock him when he tried to open it, a boy with an aquiline nose and greasy black hair stepped out of shadow into light, eyes wide, steps shaky, hands outstretched and reaching, as if Lily were too far away. Aunt Petunia scowled at him nearby, as if she'd already decided to hate him. She didn't even know his name, yet.</p><p>Harry'd already noticed that these albums seemed to have sound. If he concentrated, he could hear the words they spoke. He didn't expect the girl-who-must-be-Aunt-Petunia to be inclined to anger on his mother's behalf when the future Professor Snape said that her sister was a witch. Nor could he have predicted that this accusation would not be met with the argument that there was no such thing as magic—or at least, he couldn't have predicted that, before he'd opened the previous album, seen how strong his mum's magic had been, even in her childhood.</p><p>Was that indicative of her true identity? Or was it that she was already powerfully magical, and now had access to a different sort of magic, which she could use only posthumously? He rather suspected that it was the latter.</p><p>Perhaps, what was most surprising was how indifferent the younger Professor Snape seemed to Lily's muggleborn status. He didn't know the truth about her, but her blood status didn't seem to matter to him.</p><p>Why was he supporting and defending Draco Malfoy, then? That boy had been groomed to be a Death Eater from his childhood!</p><p>He buried his head in his hands, trying to reason through the question, but returned his attention to the photo album straightaway—those voices were so quiet as to be barely audible at all. He had to strain to hear them.</p><p>He had no need to come back downstairs, although he suspected that Mum's conversation took several hours. (But how could you tell? There were two orders of temporal flow at play, here—perceived time, and that elapsed in the outside world.) Sifting through his mother's memories of Aunt Petunia, and Professor Snape, was an educational experience.</p><p>There were no memories from before she'd been reborn—nor after she'd died. There were no memories containing James Potter, or Sirius Black, or Remus Lupin, or even Peter Pettigrew. She had left him little to go on, but what little that was warranted much thought. It was disorienting, witnessing a softer side of both his Aunt Petunia, and Professor Snape. Almost as strange was the memory of his mother, fierce and vibrant, with none of her demure dignity that he was used to.</p><p>He knew that there were many more such memories that he didn't see—not because they were locked, but because even a mere fifteen years or so of memories was a lot. There was a certain hasty disorder to the arrangement of these albums, as if they'd been stuffed in willy-nilly… or as if some sort of upheaval had rearranged the attic. The attack of the dementors? Lily's very death? Did she spend time up here, trying to sort through these?</p><p>But, despite that, he still received a sort of survey of his mother's life. There was more complexity to Aunt Petunia, even, than he had previously realised. She seemed to have decided that she'd prefer to hate Lily than to mourn her loss, but, before that, the two had clearly been close.</p><p>The whole situation was painfully familiar. How was he to react to Aunt Petunia, now? There was a certain commonality to their stories, now he knew to look—more than he'd had any cause to find, even when he'd thought to himself that she might have merely <em>envied</em> Mum her magic.</p><p>And then, there was Professor Snape. The other candidate for the manifestation of the caprice of fate. If there were entities that controlled the fates of men and gods, they were laughing at Harry. The same "themes", turned back on him, inverted from his past life. <em>His</em> suffering, born of the envy of another, thus far always indirect. Aunt Petunia, and Professor Snape, one for each of his parents.</p><p>Professor Snape…watching his fall from what passed for grace was almost <em>physically</em> painful, even from a distance, even with mere snippets to go on, even knowing only his mother's side of the story. Even with what little of her memories he had time to go through. Snape was a familiar sort of wary upon that first meeting with Lily, which combined oddly with a sort of hasty recklessness. It suggested that he'd been building himself up for this confrontation for <em>months</em>.</p><p>Aunt Petunia had clearly hated him on sight. (Harry remembered her referring to Snape as "that awful boy", from whom she had, perhaps eavesdropping, first heard of the dementors of Azkaban.)</p><p>There was a further sort of strangeness in seeing two of the individuals who worked hardest to make his life hell show such animosity towards one another. He watched Aunt Petunia cultivate her look of haughty disapproval, head back, nose in the air, her "sour lemon" look, the way her eyes learnt to skip right over Professor Snape, and then Mum.</p><p>He watched Professor Snape, unsure of his side of the story. The slytherins of his year were practically wearing <em>Support Lord Voldemort</em> badges. Lily spent as little time around them as possible, but she still witnessed their small pettinesses, the way they looked down their noses at some students, especially those of Hufflepuff, murmurs of the word <em>mudblood</em>, hissed enquiries concerning pedigree, and their treatment of Lily herself. With her red hair, it was harder for her to fade into the background. Like a torch, she caught their attention. She was too full of life, and she was too good at magic.</p><p>And, Professor Snape (not yet <em>Professor</em> Snape) seemed to look the other way. Harry clenched his fists, as if there were anything he could do, as if he could reach through the photo album and harm these people-of-the-past, some of whom must surely have since died. Was that Barty Crouch, Junior?</p><p>There was a very clear action he might take. He was aware that that was the reason that he set the albums aside, every few minutes, to process, and to try to calm himself down. He considered even opening one of the other boxes. Maybe read a book. Maybe play a game. But, the photo albums were too tempting, and he was possessed of <em>some</em> self-control. He was not his older brother.</p><p>He couldn't forget that Snape was downstairs. But, as the pieces fell into place, even from what little he saw of Snape, indirectly, through his mother's memories, which did not even function the same way as pensieve memories, he saw glimpses of a more complicated story.</p><p>He no longer knew what to think. Sirius and Remus, not to speak of Dumbledore, had always made it sound as if Snape merely envied his dad's skill at quidditch. Mother had suggested that, instead, Snape had blamed his dad for the falling out between Lily and Snape.</p><p>They had been friends, and, even in a time of war, even in slytherin, even despite all he'd had to lose, he'd taken time out, had gone out of his way, to spend time with Lily. And, what had the Sorting Hat said to Harry, long ago—that slytherin would lead him away from the road to redemption? No one with any sense said that the road to redemption was easy. Harry knew that all too well.</p><p>How did slytherin function? What was required of its members? Did Snape <em>choose</em> to hang out with future Death Eaters? Or did he have no choice, when no one outside but Lily would ever treat him with anything but derision and mistrust? Never before had Harry realised <em>just how incomplete</em> his understanding of the situation was.</p><p>But, his mother had. That was why she'd said that she didn't know whom to blame, who was truly at fault for their falling out. Snape must have done something, must have cut ties—or his mother had. But, they'd had their reasons, or they'd thought they had. There was so much at stake, in both of their lives. It was like <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>.</p><p>Wait a second. <em>Was</em> it like <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>?</p><p>Wasn't this whole scenario tangled enough?</p>
<hr/><p>He was still sifting through his mother's memories, trying to take his time, trying not to jump to conclusions, even though that sometimes seemed to be what he was best at, when he heard a soft click, and the ladder descended from the trapdoor. He hastened to stuff the photo albums back into the box, even though Mother had given him permission to look through them—had, in fact, actively encouraged it. It was still such a private, intimate thing. It felt an invasion of privacy.</p><p>He discovered that he had chosen well, when the one who climbed the rope ladder into the attic was not Mother, but Professor Snape. Snape might not be privy as to just which memories those had been, that Mother had shared with Harry.</p><p>He wondered what Mother might have told Snape—how much did he now know about Harry's circumstances? Did he understand whence the armour came—originally? Did he know that Mother was a goddess, and that Harry was a complicated anomaly? Did he know of Ron?</p><p>He must know something—it was in how his gaze wandered the room, unseeing, his usual sneer and belligerence gone. His eyes roamed the room, unseeing, shoulders slumped, gaze lowered, slightly. His world might have just been overturned.</p><p>After a moment, Professor Snape glided towards Harry, who was still sitting on a trunk. There was a certain vacancy to his expression, a blankness that strained to contour itself into familiar patterns. Harry knew the sentiment.</p><p>"Harry Potter," said Professor Snape, his voice very level and calm, spoken the way he might have said "Blaise Zabini", or "Susan Bones". There was a certain indifference that had never been there before.</p><p>"Professor Snape," said Harry, climbing to his feet, with a mocking smile for a welcome, a tilting of the head the only sign that he had any interest in the destination of this conversation. "Did you find the answers for which you sought?"</p><p>A spark of life entered Snape's eyes, a flash of familiar irritation. Harry saw him grit his teeth. "Do not interrupt me, Potter!" he cried, in a much more typical way. Harry took a moment to ponder whether or not Snape remembered that this was <em>Harry's mind</em>, and that here, Harry could do <em>anything</em>, as long as it didn't affect the outside world.</p><p>"Your mother has told me that I have been…hasty in my dealings with you, and that there is very little of your father in your character. She insists that I saw only what I wished to see, and she was quite vocal in your defence. I have already noticed evidence to that effect. I am not dense, nor foolish, Potter. She insisted that I give you a chance to explain yourself. She told me that I should ask you whether or not you believe that you are like your father."</p><p>Harry paused to consider the idea. He had been in a bad place, psychologically speaking, for several centuries—but apparently, the Marauders had managed to drag him out of it for a few decades. What effect had that had on later events—the coronation, the events in New Mexico, what came after…? He didn't know whether or not his past self had been drawn out of his funk enough to make actual mischief, but it seemed possible.</p><p>"We're not as different as she might lead you to believe," he said, into the pause left to him. Professor Snape deflated, but straightaway sat up, trying to cover his distress at this revelation.</p><p>"Nevertheless, Potter, I will choose to believe, based off personal observation, that you have more in common with your mother than with your father. Even Dumbledore says it. Accordingly, I am here to apologise."</p><p>It occurred to him to mimic the Sorting Hat and claim that he "didn't hear Snape apologising", but that occurrence bore with it the reminder that, if you thought about it, he and Professor Snape were not as different as he might wish. And, what had he thought, earlier, about how seekers of redemption should not be stingy in offering it to others? Professor Snape had more than a touch of pride about him, too.</p><p>"Just what are you apologising for?" he asked, as if indifferent, instead. He stared down at the cardboard box into which he'd returned the photo album he'd been looking through, reflecting upon Professor Snape's fall from grace, and how it compared with his own.</p><p>Professor Snape glared at him, but then his expression smoothed out. Harry remembered that Snape was a spy—albeit one with less control over his emotions than any employer might wish for. S.H.I.E.L.D. would likely not be interested.</p><p>"I am sorry for singling you out in class, and for letting my past with your father influence my actions. I regret misjudging you, and for jumping to the conclusion that it was you who stole the boomslang skin from my private stores, even after it was revealed that the actual culprit was the impostor Barty Crouch. I am sorry, for penalising you more harshly than other students, and for holding you to higher standards than could reasonably expected to be met," He sounded as if he were reciting off a set of prepared index cards, with a sort of hollow, dispassionate drone. There might, despite that, be a grain of sincerity in there. Particularly since nothing he said rang false.</p><p>"Understand that I would have made amends last year, had rumours not already been circulating that the Dark Lord was regaining his strength. Rumours which I am sure that you will have borne witness to, as I know that you were in the Hospital Wing when I tried to explain the truth to that imbecile Fudge!" he continued, in quite a different, sharper voice, that Harry was more inclined to believe as coming from Snape himself. "This year, it is critical that no one in the Ministry, nor within the ranks of the Death Eaters, be given cause to doubt my loyalty to their respective causes."</p><p>"You are a spy," Harry agreed, nodding. "Don't think I don't understand what you're saying. It will be… 'business as usual' outside of my mind. I might remind you that you ought not to assume that you will be able to return here, whenever you wish. I shall redouble my efforts in occlumency. If you seek for my forgiveness, I have a condition."</p><p>Professor Snape was smart enough to be leary of making any hasty promises, which was a shame. "What are your terms, Potter?" he asked, drawing out each, individual word, as if they were steps on the way to the hangman's noose.</p><p>"Oh, nothing much," said Harry, who had been turning over <em>other</em> thoughts than only Snape's past as he'd sat up here, waiting. "I need your guidance on a pet project of mine. Teach me legilimency, and I will say 'bygones'."</p><p>It might be the only hope for saving Sirius.</p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. At the Man-Cave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Now <i>this</i> is what I call a filler chapter.  Sirius and Remus, on a quest for the Order.  Sirius has plenty of time to reflect on the past and present.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry returned to Hogwarts after Christmas Break had ended, and Remus and Sirius returned to Order work. Sirius's responsibility was to keep an eye on Remus, out there in the wild, amongst werewolves of opinions quite different from their resident werewolf. They were more feral, more lupine, more violent.</p><p>Now that Dumbledore knew that Sirius was an animagus, Remus didn't need to suffer alone. Sirius wished that he'd had the courage to admit he was an animagus before. When he thought of that time, during the last war, when Remus must have been enduring the same treatment he now faced, but <em>alone</em>….</p><p>Of course, it had also enabled him to fight alongside James and Lily, to protect them. And Harry.</p><p>Right, well, he wasn't going to go off on that tangent, right now. That was a tangled mess, a headache waiting to happen. In the end, it didn't matter. Independent of multiple identities, he'd loved Lily and James as if they were his brother and his sister-in-law. If one of them was actually a goddess, so what? And, Harry, too… he'd loved the little boy as if he were his own son, from the first time he'd lain eyes on him. And, Loki had been his friend….</p><p>"Tell me where you were, the past decade, when Harry was suffering alone at those <em>Dursleys</em>." He spat the name, as if that were any consolation for the years of abuse, so like what Sirius himself had endured. As if it took the bitter taste from his mouth.</p><p>Remus sent him a desperate, pleading look. Sirius pulled tighter on the bandages in response, so that Remus almost yiped, but bit his cheek, instead. <em>Show no weakness</em>, eh?</p><p>"Si—Sirius, I've already told you a hundred times," Remus said. "You're as ruthless as—as—well, <em>you</em> know who."</p><p>"Voldemort?" asked Sirius, promptly. Remus winced, glancing around the clearing. No one was listening, unless they were an animagus. Remus mustered the energy to punch Sirius in the shoulder.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," he said, emphatic. "Don't you <em>dare</em> go mentioning them in the same sentence."</p><p>"I'm not the one who called him 'you know who'." Sirius said lightly. "I need to learn how to do those surgical stitches." He said that as if it were an aside, but it wasn't.</p><p>"What good does asking me where I was do?"</p><p>"It's a distraction. You go wandering off in your memories of all the things you've done, and all the places you've seen, and you forget that you're bleeding and covered in bruises. Trust me, it works."</p><p>Remus tried to glare at him, and failed spectacularly.</p><p>"Sirius, we've been over this so many times, by now, that I can rattle off the locations I visited during my Grand World Tour, in chronological order, without having to think about it. If you're trying to distract me, ask something else."</p><p>A dangerous glint entered Sirius's eyes, which were almost alive, almost alight, his lost vitality rekindling after his decade-long stay in Azkaban. Remus paled for reasons that had nothing to do with blood loss. On second thought, his wound in his side was quite shallow, and needed no closer inspection.</p><p>He glanced at the trees all around him, as if a coconut might fall from one of them and knock Sirius unconscious, as they did in muggle cartoons. However, nothing intervened on his behalf—not even a rogue werewolf, who could not, under any circumstances, become aware of Sirius's presence. This was as secluded as this forest got, and Sirius was supposed to stay in his animagus form as much as possible. But, since when did Sirius ever obey the rules?</p><p>"Well, I <em>think</em> I can come up with a <em>different</em> topic, if you've tired of describing your adventures. Such as, say, a certain baby cousin of mine. As the kid of the only decent cousin I have, I have a bit of a vested interest in her happiness, you know. I could give you the typical big brother talk. Should we go over that, instead?"</p><p>He finished wrapping the bandages around the wound in Remus's side. It was, perhaps, a bit tighter than it should've been, or why would Remus be having trouble breathing? Just the sort of vindictive thing Sirius might do, like that time when he'd let on to Snape about the way to bypass the Whomping Willow.</p><p>No, nothing like that. Still, why did he have to bring up…<em>her</em>?</p><p>"Bit late to be giving you that lecture, anyway, I suppose," said Sirius, not bothering to look as he tied the bandage off.</p><p>Remus wished that they couldn't used magic, but all these werewolves seemed to have heightened senses. Animagus magic seemed to be of a different breed than wizarding magic, so they didn't notice it (an established fact that Dumbledore had exploited), but the use of any ordinary magic would call their attention to Remus and Sirius's presence, and he'd lose any chance he had of gaining their trust. They'd see him as one of Dumbledore's chess pieces (and was he?), and would never listen to him again.</p><p>No magic. That had been the rule last time, and it held this time. Not even the Wolfsbane Potion.</p><p>The mitigating factor that made this bearable was that, around so many other werewolves, there was no great danger of him harming himself. But, that didn't stop the occasional fellow werewolf from picking a fight with him. He had a truly alarming amount of practice with defending himself, with combat in general, when in human form. And none whatsoever as a wolf.</p><p>Hence the recent bout of injuries, and Sirius's impatient attempts to treat them, despite never even being a field healer. Did Sirius have any background <em>at all</em> in this sort of thing?</p><p>"Well, Remus. Want to tell me why I found my dear little cousin bawling her eyes out about 'stupid werewolves' at the kitchen table at midnight on Christmas Eve?"</p><p>"I think I liked Louisiana best," Remus offered. "There's such a long history there of their religion—they call it 'Voodoo', I think, that they don't make as big of a deal about werewolves. I mean, they're more used to the supernatural. Talk of werewolves is prevalent all throughout the States, but there's just something about that area—"</p><p>"Well, Remus?" asked Sirius, cutting him off. Damn. Remus had hoped to be able to sidetrack him.</p><p>"I haven't done anything to her!" Remus protested. "I'm older than her, and dirt poor, and a <em>werewolf</em>. I can't even find paying work, because of what I am!"</p><p>"Funny that you assumed it was you," Sirius said, face tilted back, staring up at the stars. Apparently, he'd done as much to treat Remus's injuries as he dared. Well, what could be done about bruises? Wasn't having his wound taken care of suspicious enough?</p><p>"Who else would it be?" asked Remus, burying his head in his hands. "Greyback?"</p><p>Sirius conceded the point by remaining silent for a moment. "If she doesn't care that you're a werewolf, why do <em>you</em>?"</p><p>"I've told you before—it's genetic. I could pass it down to any kids I had, and—" he turned all crimson at the thought. "And she'd be in danger constantly…look at all the feral werewolves here—they'll attack each other even at new moon."</p><p>Sirius shoved his hand into his pockets, and kept his gaze skyward. "Ah, but you're not one of those feral wolves, now are you? You're civilised. That's the whole reason I'm hidden out here in the forest. Those of them who've kept abreast of the news know that I'm the famed mass murderer escapee from Azkaban."</p><p>He paused to think for a moment. It was harder to do than it used to be. Before Azkaban. "She could become an animagus. A registered one, you know. Once the Ministry pulls their collective heads out of the sand. She's a metamorphmagus—you'd think the process might come easier for her."</p><p>Remus was still red as a tomato, and glaring at the ground. "What if she wanted kids?" he asked, as if that would completely shoot down Sirius's argument.</p><p>"Life's a big gamble," Sirius said. "Muggles have all sorts of genetic maladies, and that doesn't stop them from having kids. But, there's so many 'ifs' in your statement, anyway. You're supposed to take things as they come, and not reject a chance for happiness flat-out just because there <em>might</em> be some dangers in the future. I know <em>I'm</em> impulsive, but Nymphie's a lot more rational. Don't you think she's considered all of this? She thinks you're worth it. You just gonna wallow in self-pity and bring her down with you?"</p><p>"That's not what I meant!" Remus protested, as he cast about for something else, something big enough to distract Sirius, who had, indeed, heard about his Tour de Monde several times already. Something…something…something….</p><p>"Just, as an intermediate third-party, interested in both of you not being such bloody idiots, I thought I'd bring it up," Sirius said. Remus could not have made it clearer that he was regretting not going over his itinerary for the umpteenth time.</p><p>"What about Harry?" Remus blurted, and Sirius blinked, hands still in his pockets, gaze still turned skywards, but Remus's words put him in mind of the incredible story Ron and Harry had shared a year ago, and he returned his gaze to the forest around him. There was a cave small enough to serve as a den, but not big enough for human habitation. Even as Padfoot, he had trouble fitting through the low opening, but he stayed there for most of the day, champing at the bit. He wanted to <em>do</em> something.</p><p>He'd left the mirror in that cave, seeing that he spent most of his time there, for the time being. Dumbledore had decided to give this a few months, see how it worked, and then pull out. Hagrid had failed with the giants, but there was always the chance that the werewolves would listen to one of their own more than a giant would listen to a <em>half</em>-giant. Maybe. The point was, they hadn't quite failed yet, and Sirius needed to be near the mirror, on the off chance that Harry sought for his assistance. Which, knowing what he now knew about Harry, seemed highly unlikely.</p><p>"Did something happen to him?" he asked, voice tight and high with his worry. Rationally, he knew that there wasn't any chance that Remus was privy to information that Sirius lacked—if anything, it was liable to be the other way around. But, he was not the most rational person, and he couldn't help reacting as he did. The fact that he'd failed Harry so many times before was like a bright red stain in his mind. A sin needing atonement.</p><p>Ah, yes. Let's steer away from that subject, shall we? Thinking more about it wouldn't change the facts, and he'd already made his peace with it, but it was still <em>weird</em>.</p><p>Remus waved his hands in a placatory gesture. "No, no, he's fine! I assume. I mean, how else would be? <em>He</em> was the one who taught <em>us</em> survival, after all. I just thought, maybe you'd learnt—Hey, thanks for volunteering <em>me</em> to fight Ron by myself!"</p><p>That thought had clearly occurred to him in the middle of his paragraph. Sirius shrugged, and tried to expand his seventh sense as he'd once been taught, to see if anyone was near enough to eavesdrop. A redundant security measure. Harry would be proud.</p><p>"I mean, clearly he'd have had no trouble beating both of us, but you might at least have <em>tried</em>," Remus was saying. This topic seemed to have caught and held his attention.</p><p>Sirius gave him his most indifferent glare, and fixed his gaze upon the entrance to the cave, considering climbing in to retrieve the two-way mirror.</p><p>"What can I say? I thought with one of us on observation detail, we might be able to figure out how he fought, and that would in turn increase the likelihood of beating him. Also, my shoulder <em>still</em> hurts from that one time, twenty years ago."</p><p>"That was different," Remus said, sounding a bit sulky. "Besides, Ron thankfully doesn't have access to all of his power—and <em>Harry</em> still had to intervene to keep him from <em>accidentally</em> killing me. I can't believe I <em>taught</em> them. It's so surreal."</p><p>Sirius had made his peace with the weirdness that now pervaded their lives, but apparently Remus was a bit behind. Okay. Sirius could be the good friend, and help him through that.</p><p>Part of him realised that Remus had successfully changed the subject, but they could always talk about Tonks later. He sensed that he'd made an impression, at least. Maybe Remus would stop being such a noble…idiot, and Tonks would stop bursting into tears and asking what she was doing wrong. He could hope.</p><p>For the moment, however…. "Our lives have been the definition of weird ever since I found that book," he said. "Talk about having everything you knew overturned in one day! Sometimes I wonder if that's what caused everything that happened after, you know? But, I can't blame <em>him</em> for what happened. Still, what did Peter want to learn, do you suppose?"</p><p>Remus shivered as a chilly breeze blew through the forest. That was one of the downsides to the no-magic rule. Without fur, he was entirely reliant upon his clothes to keep him warm. He was used to the cold, but the feral werewolves he was staying with were even <em>more</em> accustomed to it. They didn't seem to mind at all. Like Harry.</p><p>"I don't think he'd've taught Peter how to stab us in the back, even if he'd asked. Some sort of protection—or just a boost in luck, or speed, or strength. I dunno. Harry doesn't know, obviously. I suppose that's just going to be one of life's enduring mysteries."</p><p>He'd thought about it a lot, but he couldn't pinpoint it. Any idea he'd thought of he'd almost immediately shot down. Perhaps, Peter had asked for special instruction. Perhaps, he'd exploited some sort of secret ability that none of the others, the <em>true</em> Marauders, had been aware of, or able to figure out. But, that would have made him the smartest of all of them, and Sirius refused to bestow that honour upon him.</p><p>Sirius climbed up the rock face until he could sit on the ledge overhanging the cave mouth. It was the best seat around, and it still left much to be desired. He was distracted, however, or else he might have made some sort of sarcastic comment about how spectacular the view was.</p><p>"Do you get the feeling Harry's hiding something from us?" Remus asked, hesitant, into the overwhelming silence. Sirius glanced down in his most imperious manner. The glare of the midday sun, such as it was, turned his squint into something that might be mistaken for an imperious sneer.</p><p>"You think?" Sirius asked, his voice quite as biting as if Remus had just said something profoundly stupid. Which, perhaps, he had.</p><p>"I don't mean…all of that," Remus said, waving a hand in a vague movement. "Recently. He spent all that time in the library over Christmas Break—"</p><p>"He's always spent a lot of time in the library," Sirius said, with a wistful softness, and a fond smile that seemed to subtract at least five years. He consider mentioning Harry's casual mention of a cure for lycanthropy, but he'd said he wouldn't return to the topic of Tonks, and that would've been too tempting an opportunity to pass up, if he'd brushed that close by it.</p><p>"Don't you ever offer to help him look for anything? It would be a way to keep track of what he's researching—"</p><p>Sirius raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea who organised the family library, nor how they arranged it. So, I have no pretence of usefulness. Besides, he's a big boy. He can handle himself."</p><p>"You're making that mistake again!" Remus protested, in evident frustration. Remus rarely raised his voice. "He's not an <em>adult</em>, Sirius. He's not <em>James</em>."</p><p>"I know that," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. But, Remus was not done.</p><p>"He's not <em>Loki</em>, either. He's a <em>child</em>, and we're doing a poor job of protecting him from—"</p><p>"It's <em>too late</em> to protect him. He's got that prophecy looming over his head, for one, and for another, he already knows what war is. If people like Molly keep trying to shield him, he'll only end up less able to defend himself. That could get him killed—or worse. Let him research whatever he feels he must. He isn't Loki, sure, but that doesn't make him an idiot. He knows what he's doing. He might not remember the first time we met, but he still has—"</p><p>He lost his train of thought. It still happened, over two years later, sometimes. Dementors tended to do that to you. Harry had told him a few horror stories concerning his own experiences with the things.</p><p>"I know they're not quite the same," Sirius finished, a much weaker end than he'd had planned. "But, they're not as different as you want to pretend, either. 'Knowledge is power', the saying goes, and whatever Harry's researching, I trust <em>him</em>, I trust <em>Harry</em>, to know his own limits. No one else seems to trust him. Don't be a loser grownup who thinks he needs constant minding, Remus. You taught him a year. You must know how smart he is."</p><p>Remus hesitated. "Fine. But, if this backfires spectacularly, I get to say 'I told you so'."</p><p>Spending so much time with Sirius was going to regress <em>him</em> to his teenage years.</p><hr/><p>They spent far too much time in that forest for Sirius's liking. He had little to do, all the day, but wait for news—from <em>anyone</em>, and think, at great length, on the past, and plans for the future. Sirius was one of those people who should never be allowed to brood. Memories of happiness, lost beyond recall, mocked him. Memories of unbearable tragedy, his greatest mistakes, haunted him.</p><p>He recalled Harry, scolding him for not knowing the ultimate fate of his younger brother, Regulus. Alone in the woods, he nevertheless once or twice thought he heard James. Or Lily. Or both. Always with sharp, clipped words, an accusation, an indictment, a condemnation.</p><p>He took out a deck of muggle playing cards, and tried to see whether or not he remembered the rules to any muggle solitaire games. On Saturdays, he was allowed to go into town, to pick up supplies, and other necessities. Remus went to headquarters to give his reports, and Sirius stood aside, and ignored Snape's jibs about how he wasn't doing anything useful. He spent the weekends at Grimmauld Place, to hold the defences strong—a Fidelius Charm was useless on an uninhabited house. That was why he stayed there at all. That, and, if the Death Eaters ever took it, there would be plentiful excuse to raze it to the ground.</p><p>He hated the house, and he hated Kreacher, but at least it was a release from the constant wariness (CONSTANT VIGILANCE!) he had to observe out in the woods. Even a thrill seeker needed an occasional reprieve.</p><p>He listened to the reports given as to the Order's progress on various tasks. It wasn't good, Voldemort was aware of his connection to Harry. It wasn't good, Sturgis Podmore had been killed by a clipping of Devil's Snare. It wasn't good, Voldemort had broken his Death Eaters out of Azkaban. Everyone sat down, legs too shaky, suddenly, to support them, at this announcement.</p><p>But, Voldemort didn't have the prophecy, and he'd hesitate to move before he knew the missing words. They tumbled over Sirius's mind, unbidden. They fell into the holes in his mind like muggle billiard balls, and were lost, only to shuffle back through, around to the top of the field, to run and scatter again. He hated it.</p><p>Remus continued to report that he'd made no progress. Hagrid showed up with bruises that he refused to explain. Sirius pretended to ignore Snape's thinly veiled insults, and deliberately made a racket in the entry-hall, relishing in the lack of response.</p><p>A gift. He should be more grateful.</p><p>Kreacher's absence was suspicious, but it was always possible that he'd at long last kicked it. Sirius could hope, anyway.</p><p>It was almost a relief, almost a disappointment, when Dumbledore gave the werewolves up for a lost cause.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Might as well make this my promised make-up chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Phoenix Red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Probably about the shippiest I get.  Harry/Ginny, at Hogsmeade.</p>
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    <p>Professor Snape had replaced his occlumency lessons with legilimency lessons, but had insisted that they continue practising occlumency, as well. Harry knew the importance of the grain of truth, and made no protests. He made the occasional visit to the Sorting Hat, as well, because now that such practices were unavoidable, he was determined to do his best.</p><p>Meanwhile, he continued to work through the Defence Association, and special instruction for Ginny, which was never a part of the D.A. meetings the way that Neville's instruction was. Then, during one of these special instruction sessions, Ginny had revealed that she didn't know how to speak Latin, and Harry, who was self-taught regardless, offered to teach her and Ron.</p><p>Ron seemed resigned to learning, but bore through it with surprising goodwill, perhaps because Hermione, who was also self-taught, had volunteered to help. It was theoretically possible that she could get through to Ron, when Harry had always failed. He'd give her a chance. He had rather a lot of distractions, amongst the problems of Umbridge trying to goad him into detentions, and preparation for O.W.L.s (which he nearly forgot about, despite how often the professors would remind them), his mind magic lessons with Professor Snape, the dreams of the darkened corridor (which he should not be having, Professor Snape would insist upon reminding him).</p><p>Ron was quicker to learning the new language than Ginny, which seemed to frustrate her to no end, but which made sense enough to Harry. There were Reasons. He was not about to enumerate them before Ginny, however.</p><p>He understood that her continued successes in private practice were a boost to her confidence which helped to ease the sting of Ron besting her in this subject. That, and the fact that she was receiving special instruction, and that, with it, she surpassed the rest of the DA. She had the common sense to tone down her skill level at those meetings, to preserve the secret that she had a unique advantage.</p><p>Gryffindor won the second match of the year, which put both her and Ron in better spirits, but didn't affect Harry in the slightest. But, the mass breakout from Azkaban (blamed on the deceased Peter Pettigrew, which almost made him regret killing the man) put a dampener on everyone's spirits.</p><p>Except for Neville. He seemed to have been driven to new heights. He believed what Harry had said about his only real barriers being a lack of confidence, and a lack of practice, and set to with a will, outstripping most of the rest of the DA, all of a sudden.</p><p>Harry knew that this was on account of the sudden looming threat of Bellatrix Lestrange. (And perhaps some personal matter of revenge? It had that tang to it). He was the only person not to lose his cool at the sudden attack of the acromantulai (bar Ginny, who had plenty of experience by now with Harry's idea of training). Ron scolded him severely, but Harry made no apologies. The acromantulai in question had been returned, memories wiped, to the Forbidden Forest, wobbling about in a daze.</p><p>Even Neville, however, faltered at Harry's idea of an obstacle course, which Remus Lupin and Sirius Black had also helped to design. This was Ron's chance to shine, so Harry held him back and forbade him to even make the attempt.</p><p>"I already <em>know</em> that you can do this," he'd said, rolling his eyes as he'd grabbed Ron's arm to hold him back.</p><p>You had to admire the ability of the Room of Requirement to violate all laws of logic or physics to accommodate its summoners' needs. If anyone seemed as if they were in danger of dying, Harry could intervene to stop that particular part of the course without ruining things for everyone else.</p><p>Hermione buried her head in her hands, and tried not to look. She'd had the common sense to tell that something was not right about the room, even before the course had started up.</p><p>"Was <em>Indiana Jones</em> one of the movies you watched when you were a kid?" she asked, peeking between her fingers. "I didn't even know that this room <em>had</em> arrow hoops."</p><p>It hadn't, he didn't think, but it usually didn't have windows. Zacharias Smith looked as if he very much regretted ever coming to this club. That might just have been the second degree burns on his face, though. Still, he'd slogged through to the end. That counted.</p><p>Harry reached out for his shoulder, casually, and suffused raw magic into his injuries. The burns receded and Smith narrowed his eyes into a glare at Harry. Apparently, it wasn't just that you couldn't have <em>everything</em>. You couldn't win, with this particular Hufflepuff.</p><p>Neville broke down in tears at the end, but he'd had one of the best scores; that was acceptable.</p><p>"I did promise that this wouldn't be in a risk-free environment," Harry reminded them. "And, you should have already realised that, after the acromantulai. None of the spells you encountered are above your level to combat. Didn't any of you remember the Shield Charm? And if you hadn't rushed, you would have noticed that the flamethrowers don't respond to things that are out of their line-of-sight. A Disillusionment Charm would have worked well against those."</p><p>"Are you trying to get us killed, Potter?" Smith barked, in a remarkable imitation of Mad-Eye Moody. Harry shrugged.</p><p>"None of these traps are designed to be fatal, or even crippling. They're filled with the sorts of tricks Death Eaters are liable to use. I didn't ask the Room to add in the Killing Curse—or any of the Unforgivable Curses, for the matter of that. This was intended to be a bit of a wake-up call."</p><p>Luna came to stand with the rest of the group who had already arrived at the other end. She was the last one through, but had emerged almost entirely unscathed.</p><p>"Can I run it again?" asked Ginny, smiling at Harry. He stared at her. You'd think that she was biologically related to <em>Thor</em>, not Ron. Then again….</p><p>Ginny and Neville were amongst the least injured of those who'd run the course. The overconfident, like Smith, and the Weasley Twins, fared the worst. Most people, once they realised that they were running an obstacle course, kept their wits about them, and timed their passes through the narrower corridors to avoid the regular beams of light that signified various curses.</p><p>Ginny had also toned down her own competence.</p><p>"I'd like to see <em>you</em> run it," Smith said, glaring daggers at Harry. Harry shrugged, and nodded, and despite not knowing all the threats that lay ahead, himself, made it through the course completely unscathed, if he took longer about it than Luna.</p><p>Smith glared at him harder, as if it would make him burst into flame, and Ginny ran the course again without asking permission.</p><p>All in all, the DA was a success.</p><p>As were Ginny's private tutoring sessions.</p><hr/><p>The basic structure of these private sessions was that he reminded her of a spell, and they spent an entire lesson each, in the Room of Requirement, usually, working on that spell, as Ginny hunted down the feeling of being able to <em>sense </em>magic that indicated her seventh sense, as she isolated, trained herself to recognise, trained herself to <em>use</em>, that sense.</p><p>Meanwhile, she was also learning wandless magic. One of the very first things she was made to do was set aside her wand in a bracket on the wall, and to step away from it. Without her wand as a conductor, she could the more readily feel and identify the flow of magic itself through her body. She was in awe, whenever she managed to hunt down that sense. It filled her with a sort of drunken giddiness.</p><p>When she'd managed to cast her spells wandlessly against the dummies for a few rounds in a row, Harry cast the variant of the Star Preserver spell on her, and they had another go. Ginny discovered that she quite liked the feeling of accomplishment that filled her when she saw herself go from being unable to even create a small spark, to being able to cast the spell of the day without even glancing at the bracket where her increasingly superfluous conductor lay.</p><p>She set to with an excess of passion the Friday after the Death Eaters escaped Azkaban. The knowledge of what they'd done haunted her. And Neville…how had he never mentioned, even on that day they'd come across him at St. Mungo's, that <em>Bellatrix Lestrange</em> had been one of the four arrested and thrown into Azkaban for torturing his parents into insanity? (She shuddered at the mere thought.)</p><p>Harry was the only one who understood the latent horror in such a scenario—he knew how it was to have his mind taken over, his will overruled. He and Ginny were alone in that regard, but it gave the Imperius Curse a specific horror for them. But, the Cruciatus, too….</p><p>Well, sometimes Ginny thought that she caught glimmers of unease on that front with Harry, too.</p><hr/><p>Still, Valentine's Day was also an important event, although it fell on a Wednesday a few weeks after the Death Eaters escaped. Slowly, talk of Death Eaters and the new security measures Hogwarts would need to institute turned away from these important matters to the somewhat frivolous Valentine's Day traditions of giving prospective boyfriends (or girlfriends) chocolates and flowers, homemade cards, and poetry written by them, themselves.</p><p>It was most unfortunate that Valentine's Day fell on a Wednesday this year—Hogsmeade weekends were often situated around that date, to allow couples to sneak off and spend the day together. But, this year, it was smack dab in the middle of the week. Despite that, Ginny couldn't help keeping her fingers crossed. Hogsmeade weekend was the tenth and eleventh, this year…perhaps….</p><p>"Say, Harry!" she said, realising that she'd have to broach the subject herself. He turned back around to face her, clearly at a loss. She was still feeling giddily invincible after a few rounds of successful Impediment Jinxes supercharged with Harry's go-to spell. She knew she was being his guinea pig for how to tone down the spell so that it no longer made every spell uncontrollable and dangerous. It didn't bother her. She thought she understood his mind—perhaps even better than most.</p><p>"What is it, Ginny?" he asked, as if he were not properly attending. But, he always seemed to be thinking of a few things at the same time—at least, during their advanced study sessions. Perhaps, it was due in part to those "Remedial Potions" classes that Professor Snape had forced upon him after the holidays had ended.</p><p>"Valentine's Day is next Wednesday," she said, beaming at him. He blinked, as if taken aback, but finally seemed to be paying attention to her. She found that this meant that she couldn't look at him, swaying on the spot, rocking on her heels, looking everywhere <em>else</em>, but at him. Why had she said anything at all? "And—and there's a Hogsmeade weekend, tomorrow, and all—"</p><p>He tilted his head at her. "I know. Hermione has some sort of top-secret plans laid for that day. She told me to meet her at noon at the Hog's Head, to 'strike a blow at the Ministry'. I don't think I've seen her this determined since she founded Spew."</p><p>He shook his head, but he was smiling. In other circumstances, Ginny might have been jealous at the suggestion that Harry would be spending that day with Hermione, but the way he'd put it—as if that were the farthest thought from his mind—combined with what she knew of Ron and Hermione, put her fears to rest.</p><p>"Would you—would you be willing to spend the morning with me?" she asked, turning a rather uniform red. She could feel it. Still, she wasn't in gryffindor for nothing! She <em>had</em> to at least try!</p><p>He gave her a decidedly puzzled frown, tilting his head in the other direction. "…Just to be clear, Ginny, are you asking me on a date?"</p><p>This was, of course, the sort of thing that Harry needed spelt out for him. Ginny knew that heading into it. But, she found that she didn't mind, either. Not that that made it any <em>easier</em>….</p><p>She wrung her hands, and tried not to be squeamish, lest she make this any more awkward than it already was (were that even possible).</p><p>"Yes?" she squeaked. He stared at her for a moment, unresponsive, and then smiled.</p><p>"<em>I</em> was supposed to ask <em>you</em>, wasn't I?" he asked, shaking his head. "But, I see I missed my chance. Alright, Ginny. Meet me at the entrance to the common room. But, I think we'd best warn Hermione."</p><p>She didn't have the heart to tell him that there was absolutely no need for that.</p><hr/><p>Hogsmeade was always such a lively place, at least on Hogsmeade weekends, and when not being patroled by dementors. Third year students wandered the streets without a care in the world, taking in the sights, awed, still, as this was only their second journey. Not that Harry or Ginny had been here that often, either. She had, however, heard about Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop from some of the older girls. She thought that Harry would probably die of shame before entering such a place. Besides, he was going to one of the pubs later to speak with Hermione. Whatever nefarious plan she'd concocted might keep them there for some time.</p><p>But, there were locations in Hogsmeade other than pubs and teashops. There were a few quidditch supply stores, and general supply stores, and Hogsmeade even had a bookstore or two. Windowshopping and talking about magic were enjoyable enough ways to pass the time, but Harry had to bring up her special study, trying to hone her seventh sense. He <em>would</em> bring it up at the randomest times.</p><p>For Harry, too, this was still a strange and new experience. He'd missed a few Hogsmeade visits, last year, preparing as he was for the Triwizard Tournament. He was still mostly unaware of all that Hogsmeade had to offer.</p><p>Ginny knew some things that Harry didn't. She'd first come to Hogsmeade on her own, and had had to make her own way. It was not a large town—hardly the sort of place where anyone could become lost—but she'd wandered the streets of the market district, looking for interesting, less-popular places. She had no interest in Zonko's, and she could see Honeydukes's being the sort of place you eventually just popped in and out of. There was a park that she'd found, there, on her first visit. It was enchantingly quiet. She had to wonder what Harry would make of it.</p><p>On the way, they passed a post office—the only one necessary in these parts, as Hogwarts had its own postal service. It brought the thought of Hedwig to her mind.</p><p>"Say, Harry," she said, into a not-uncomfortable silence. He glanced up at her, and then tilted his head back at the overcast sky. "What happened to Hedwig? Why is Professor Grubbly-Plank still here at Hogwarts, now that Hagrid's back? You seem to be the centre of all rumours—I mean—"</p><p>He laughed. It seemed to be one of genuine amusement, rather than bitter regret. He'd been making far too many of the latter, of late. "Yes. Fate does love to single me out. Not that I believe in Ron's 'Hand of Fate'. But, it is all tied together. Hedwig's recovering well—Professor Grubbly-Plank stayed because she was the one who started treating Hedwig, back when she <em>somehow</em> broke her wing."</p><p>Harry directed a glare dead ahead, but when he glanced at Ginny, it was with a small smile. "She's been looking after Hedwig's treatment. Hedwig's almost well. Although <em>Umbridge</em> tried to poison her that once, so—"</p><p>"She <em>what</em>?" Ginny demanded, hands on her hips. "How dare she! She can't possibly—! Ooh, that b—! Hedwig is such a lovely owl. Umbridge must be a heartless cad."</p><p>Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you just <em>now</em> figuring this out?"</p><p>Ginny looked down at her feet, frowning, deep in thought. She barely noticed as she continued to lead the way down the lane. The streets were narrower here—it was less-frequented—but she had little trouble navigating them, even with the occasional dislodged stone from the cobblestone road. It gave her something else to think about—just enough distraction to think. "No," she said. "I just thought—she's supposed to have all those plates of kittens in her office. I thought she might have a heart, albeit a withered, decaying old thing."</p><p>Harry paused, and rounded on her. He'd spoken to no one of the interior of Umbridge's office. Whence, then, the rumours?</p><p>"How do <em>you</em> know what Umbridge's office looks like?" he asked, with feigned levity and indifference. His hands went into the pockets of his robes, in a habit he seemed to have adopted from Sirius. Ginny blinked.</p><p>"Well—I mean, some people have had detention there. They say it's awful, but they won't say <em>why</em>. I suppose it's all those kitten plates, and the pink…even the portraits won't shut up about the pink. You haven't heard?"</p><p>Harry couldn't give her anything like a genuine smile, and thus refused to look at her. "No." He wouldn't press his luck and ask for names. She might become suspicious, and if anyone were being made to use that Black Quill, he'd know easily enough. Not everyone had his ability to hide wounds. Only Ron surpassed his threshold for endurance.</p><p>Ginny seemed to know that she'd hit on something important. "What's wrong, Harry?" she asked, reaching for his arm, trying to turn him around, to face her. Even friends didn't let friends suffer alone, and she knew that Harry didn't know better…even after being friends with Ron and Hermione for years, he still didn't seem to understand that he needn't face <em>everything</em> alone. Her heart went out to him, appalled at what manner of childhood would lead to that sort of mindset. Not that Ron was any better, sometimes….</p><p>"It's fine, Ginny," he said, and he managed a smile for her. "Just some rather bitter thoughts towards Her High-Inquisitorness. I'm sure you know the sentiment."</p><p>There was a certain distance to his expression, but that was perhaps understandable. There was a moment's uncertainty, as Ginny considered whether she ought to press him for more information, regardless, but then Harry looked away, resting a hand on her shoulder. She noticed that they were about the same height, by now. Maybe Harry'd just not had his growth spurt yet, or whatever. Still, she remembered the conditions Ron and The Twins had found him in, before second year… that seemed the sort of treatment that would have lasting consequences.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Harry," she murmured, deciding that a hug could never go amiss. Besides, she sort of owed him payback for that first practice session. She wrapt her arms around him, in the briefest of hugs, and made to pull away, but he sighed, and wrapt his arms around her back in return.</p><p>"Can't figure out anything on my own, can I?" he asked. "This was supposed to be a date, I think. Not very romantic."</p><p>"I don't think either of us are big on the romantic aspect of it," Ginny said. She was surprised to find that her voice was level. She wasn't even blushing. "You're weird," she decided.</p><p>"The Wizarding World is. <em>I</em> am not," he corrected her. He let her go, and turned away. Her heart might have forgotten to beat for that period of time; it was pounding now.</p><p>"You're not exactly normal, either," he continued. But, he turned to her, and smiled, and held out a hand, and there was none of the distance of before, in his eyes. Did that count as progress? "Come now, Ginny, dear. Let's do this properly, shall we?"</p><p>She realised that she was expected to <em>take</em> his hand, and took it. It seemed colder than the rest of him. She gasped, and he turned back to face her, eyes wide, head bowed.</p><p>"Ginny? Are you okay?" None of that casual confidence in his voice, now. "Are you hurt?"</p><p>He seemed a completely different person, now. More like the Harry she thought she'd caught glimpses of back in her first year. She just stared at him, trying to figure him out. Maybe, that confidence was all a front. Maybe, he didn't understand any better than she.</p><p>"It's nothing," she managed to say, and his eyes narrowed.</p><p>"We can't start this off with you lying to me," he said, staring her down. She couldn't meet his eyes, glancing down at his hand. Why was it his left hand? Did it matter?</p><p>"You're cold," she said. Then, she realised how that might sound. "I mean, physically."</p><p>He flinched. "Oh," he said. She kicked herself, mentally.</p><p>"It's okay, though. I don't mind. Not really. It was just a surprise, is all."</p><p>She thought that this was probably true. Harry turned back to face her. He stared her down, as if dissecting her, and his gaze softened.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Ginny," he said, with a bitter smile, and Ginny thought some rather unflattering things about herself. She should've known better than to—</p><p>"Don't be such a noble prat. That's the only thing worth apologising for," she tried to say. The words refused to be voiced. She stared at him, as if willing him to read her mind, instead.</p><p>A thought occurred to her, a reason for his strange behaviour. He didn't usually flinch, after all. She struggled to put it to words. "Harry!" she managed to say, at last. "Does this have anything to do with what we talked about before—about…you know, what we have <em>in common</em>?"</p><p>Harry's refusal to answer the question, the way he stood there for a moment, utterly still, was answer enough. Ginny licked suddenly dry lips, glancing at him with her head bowed, and her hands clasped tight before her, lest she be tempted to wring them.</p><p>"Harry," she said, lifting her head to look him in the eyes. "You know that you can tell me anything—anything at all—and I won't judge you for it, right?"</p><p>Another of those horrible, bitter laughs. "Not even if I told you that I went crazy, killed a bunch of people, and tried to take over the world?" He spread his hand wide, as if this were some manner of offering.</p><p>She frowned, staring down at the ground, knowing the expected answers, and determined not to leap into this. If hanging out around Harry—or learning from him—taught you <em>anything</em>, it was not to jump into <em>any</em> situation unprepared. She could hear the cues in his voice—the things a normal person would say, the things she was expected to say. She knew what she wanted to say. None of those were useful, until she took the question as it was, figured out what lay beneath her own thoughts.</p><p>He'd saved her from a fate worse than death, had exposed vulnerability that he usually kept well-hidden, to help her. He'd gone from being a distant celebrity to her own, personal hero.</p><p>She knew that he was testing her. It wasn't fair that he was always testing her, but then—life hadn't been fair to either of them, particularly not him.</p><p>She saw his grin pull into a mere baring of teeth, eyes narrowed and wild. She knew that it was important to think fast—no one could think as fast as Harry, but she tried her hardest to keep up—but that it was also vital to think this through, to make the best answer in her limited time. She knew what all the wrong answers were. She just couldn't think of the right one.</p><p>"Harry," she begged. <em>You can't ask me that</em>. But, of course, he <em>had</em>. That was a bad answer, too. "If you told me that, I can't promise that I wouldn't… <em>react</em>, but I'd listen to what you had to say. I'd give you a chance to explain what you meant. And, I know…somehow, I wouldn't think less of you. I mean, it would be hypocritical of me, wouldn't it?"</p><p>She raised her head to look him in the eyes, and, pulling off her left cotton glove, reached out a hand for him, again. His expression slowly leveled out. She realised that she was crying, and brushed hot tears away from her eyes with the hand she wasn't holding out to him. He glanced down, saw her outstretched hand, and took the step forwards to take that hand in both of his, with a frown. He didn't seem to notice what he was doing.</p><p>Ginny tried not to wince, or shiver. His hands were freezing, and it was the middle of February. Why didn't he have gloves? Why didn't he have a winter coat? But, the answer to those questions were obvious, and she wasn't stupid enough to ask, to bring up bad memories, particularly when Harry seemed in a bad way, anyway.</p><p>He shook his head, as if to clear it, with a crooked grin. "Thank you, Ginny," he said, his voice very soft, but there was no malice to it (now?). "I'm sorry."</p><p>He looked back up, into her eyes, again, and his expression softened. Remorse, as if he'd realised he'd crossed some sort of line, although he couldn't think what. The moment of danger past, Ginny threw her arms around him and sobbed, surprised at her own actions. It was rather as if she'd just survived a harrowing trial, and he'd been there to meet her, at the end. But he, for once, wrapt his arms around her, and held her, and they stayed there for a very long time that way</p><p>And Ginny, if she felt the cold, didn't notice it. And, she thought that even if she <em>had</em> noticed it, she wouldn't have minded.</p><hr/><p>"Harry," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. He was, she reflected, as tough as steel, only perhaps not psychologically, and she'd seen more of his vulnerability than most.</p><p>She felt safe, despite it all. She thought that she could return to talking about ordinary things with him. "If Hedwig is still being treated by Professor Grubbly-Plank, then how do you send mail?"</p><p>"Did you know that when we were officially given instructions for the First Task, last year, we each reached into a bag and pulled out a miniature figurine of the dragon we'd be facing? They're not alive, so most jinxes won't work on them, and I've charged mine up with magic. And Fleur's. And Cedric's. And Krum sent his back once. I've had to add all sorts of protections, but they're the ultimate postal service."</p><p>"That's amazing!" Ginny said, smiling up at him, although she had to bend backwards to do so. "I wanna see."</p><p><em>Don't whine</em>, she reminded herself. <em>No one likes a whiner</em>. Paraphrased advice from her Mum.</p><p>She broke away from him, and took his hand, again, to lead him to the park.</p><p>Harry appreciated the park as much as Ginny could have expected. He paused at the entrance, and she knew that he was taking the moment to analyse what sort of magic it possessed. He'd already complained at the lack of magical residue in the rest of Hogsmeade. But, even without her training, Ginny had known that this place was different, somehow. Now, she could feel the same thing that he did: the cycle of life and death, nature. This place had once been an orchard, she thought. But, no one had cultivated it in a long time.</p><p>She couldn't help thinking that perhaps Neville would have appreciated it a lot more.</p><p>Harry saw it as a place of mystery, full of raw magic. Once upon a time, people had tried to turn it to a particular purpose, but they had forgot their efforts, and the place itself had followed suit. Now, it could be used for almost anything.</p><p>They wandered through the small park—which somehow seemed isolated from the rest of the world—for a few hours, before they returned, heading back towards the Hog's Head, where Hermione had arranged…whatever she'd arranged. Harry spoke as they walked, all fragments of knowledge, theories about places of power, the degradation of purpose over time, ways that purpose could shift.</p><p>"Are we influencing it, too, being here?" Ginny asked, looking all around her.</p><p>"No," Harry said. "Only if you try to use it for a particular purpose." He wasn't quite attending to what he was saying. Nor was it quite true. Magic was made of focus and desire. It made sense that strong emotions would always influence it. Just as well he'd emerged from his state of embittered misanthropy before they'd continued. Just as well that Ginny was here.</p><p>She kept up with him alarmingly well. Her first thought at his pronouncement was that they should infuse it with protective magic—magic to guard Hogsmeade, to make a safe haven, for when the inevitable happened, and Riddle came out into the open.</p><p>That hadn't occurred to Harry. The most he could tell was that it couldn't be done in a single day. There was too much sluggish indifference to the magic, currently. But, he liked the idea. This place reminded him of his Mother's garden, albeit overgrown. But, that tried to make him consider what might happen if he and Thor <em>did</em> save her life, and that made him remember all the secrets he was still keeping.</p><p>And, Ginny refused to let him be distant. She wanted to help, and he'd said that he'd spend the day with her, not wandering lost in his own thoughts—he could do <em>that </em>anytime.</p><p>It started snowing, as they walked through the undergrowth, and Harry conceded that they should probably head back to the shops and taverns, where there was warmth.</p><p>They stopped by that quidditch supply store on the way to the Hog's Head, and Harry insisted upon buying her something—against her loud protestations—which he justified with the excuse that she was his temporary stand-in, and thus his representative. He knew that she would never let him buy her a new broom, so he settled for protective mitts. If he found an excuse to add his <em>own</em> measures of protections to them, he said nothing. If she noticed, she likewise, wisely, kept silent.</p><p>He would have stalled further, had he known Hermione's plan, or at the very least, sent Ginny off, on her own, rather than expose her to Rita Skeeter, who turned around at their entrance, eyes already narrowing into a malevolent smirk.</p><p>"Oh, hello, Harry," said Hermione, calm as ever. "You're a bit early. Come over here and sit down."</p><p>Of course, it was four against one, with Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Harry all there. He liked those odds. And Ginny, given a chance to retreat, nevertheless joined him. As he'd noted before, she was strong. Even Skeeter would have a hard time beating down this one. Let the games begin!</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't like the D.A. scene, either.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. The Ultimate Fate of Regulus Black</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sirius confronts Kreacher on what became of Regulus, and enlists Harry's help in destroying the locket.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>author's note: Ugh. This <i>chapter</i>. Just...don't talk to me about <i>this chapter</i>. I had to write it—from <i>scratch</i>, from a certain point on, because my word processor kept erasing what I'd typed...over the course of a week... <i>three times</i>. And it shows. You can probably even tell where that point is, reading it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Back in Grimmauld Place for an extended period of time, Sirius could not help dwelling upon events long past. Grimmauld Place had the nasty tendency to make him feel sixteen again—in the worst possible way. He often found himself humouring the tacit assumption that he'd round the corner and there would be his mother, or father, or <em>Reggie</em>. And this, despite the house in disrepair, tattered, mouldering upholstery and all. His eyes saw it, the disarray, the rot, the decay. His <em>mind</em> did not. Visitors helped, but even they could do little to allay the consequences of his decade-long stay in Azkaban.</p><p>When the others were busy with work for the Order, and it was not his turn for a shift at the Department of Mysteries, he sat in the library, and thought. Sometimes, he questioned what Harry might have been researching here, but mostly he thought back to what Harry had said, and the tapestry….</p><p>The tapestry. He thought of the tale that Ron and Harry had told him, only last year. Had he not been told, he never would have guessed. And Loki had lived first in Grimmauld Place, and then hidden at the Potters' modest two-storey house. There'd been less room to hide there, but he'd still, somehow, managed to stay hidden from James's parents, which was no mean feat. Then again, he could turn invisible, or something.</p><p>Still, the fact remained: if Sirius hadn't been able to put together the truth on his own (and that tale itself was a study in secrets!), what else might he have wrongly assumed?</p><p>There was only one person he knew of who might know what had become of Regulus—one whose actions would not have made their knowledge evident, that was. His mother would have burnt his name off the tapestry had there been proof that Regulus had abandoned the Death Eaters and Voldemort. She had stayed her hand not out of love for her heir (for Sirius had already long gone, by then), but because the report was rumour only.</p><p>Bellatrix Lestrange, and the other now-escapees, had made no mention of Regulus, one way or another. But, no more had he ever come up in an Order meeting. His fate, his motivations, his <em>tale</em>, remained untold, unheard, unknown.</p><p>One only remained who might be able to give Sirius more details (he told himself, lest he be forced to seek answers from the Death Eaters, the next down on the list of those-who-might-know-the-truth). He would leave groveling before Death Eaters (or <em>Voldemort</em>) as a last resort. There was another who might yet know the truth. And, as the last Black, the heir reinstated, only Sirius had the authority to demand answers from him. If he could bring himself to spend five minutes in that wretched house-elf's presence without strangling him, that was.</p><p><em>You should be kinder to him</em>, Dumbledore would tell him. Easy for him to say! Here, it was bad enough for Sirius to even <em>visit</em> this house, brimming over as it was with many of his worst memories, which had been preserved, as if freeze-dried, by his experiences with dementors in Azkaban.</p><p>Sirius Black sat at the self-same desk at which Harry had studied…whatever, back over break—in the very same seat, as if it would lend him perspective, or something. He gazed off at a stack of books that he had never bothered to reshelve, and considered trying to figure out what Harry had been researching. Probably a cure for lycanthropy, or something. Hadn't he said something about that, last year?</p><p>"Sure, Dumbledore," he muttered, burying his head in his hands. He was alone in the house, for the moment, save for Kreacher. For once, this was by his own design. But, he'd been staying here for the past few days, trying to work himself up to the prospect of—</p><p>"Let me be <em>nice</em> to him, be the better man and just smile and nod as he talks about how much he loved watching my parents with their stinging hexes and their Unforgivable Curses. I should never have left Reggie to them—"</p><p>He shook his head, and, with that thought suffusing him with purpose, he stood, and strode from the room. He knew where Kreacher's hidey-hole was. But, he'd do the polite thing, and not invade Kreacher's personal quarters. (Hermione would be <em>so</em> proud; she didn't know that Kreacher was a low-life, didn't seem to realise that you had bad apples in any group, including house-elves.)</p><p>Kreacher had hated Sirius—had made no secret of this fact—and his opinions on Sirius's mum and dad were uncertain. But Sirius knew that Kreacher had <em>adored</em> Regulus. Perhaps…for Regulus…?</p><p>He would ask <em>today</em>. He would ask <em>now</em>. The need to know, for better or for worse, whether Kreacher even had any of the answers for which Sirius sought, was eating away at him. Azkaban had taken so much of what Sirius was from him. He didn't need this strange sense of limbo nibbling on what remained. What did Kreacher know? Sirius was alone in the house. It was an optimal time for asking questions.</p><p>"Kreacher!" he shouted, as he left the room. "Kreacher, meet me in the kitchen! Please," he tacked on the last word, thinking that if he were going to humour Dumbledore at all, he'd best start his attempts by being a bit more polite. And see the derision that inevitably would result.</p><p>He made his way into the kitchen, arriving first, and then had to wait for Kreacher. He sat there, at the kitchen table, and thought about what to say. But, he was unprepared for Kreacher's arrival. He braced himself, thinking back to what Dumbledore said.</p><p>Kreacher, if anyone, would know what had become of Regulus. He would try to be kind to him, for Regulus's sake. He owed that to him.</p><p>"Sit down, Kreacher," he said, turning to face the doorway as Kreacher finally entered. He did his best to ignore the urge to assume his usual bored, dispassionate affect that he usually used when reminded of his childhood. He owed it to Regulus.</p><p>He took a deep breath in, and then out, trying to calm himself down before he continued. "Relax," he said, somehow managing to suppress any sense of irony at the situation, despite how tense he was, thinking of the oncoming confrontation. He kept his voice as mild as he could make it. He had some practice, speaking with Harry. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to ask you some questions."</p><p>Kreacher may have hated him, but Sirius was the last remaining heir of the House of Black (although Sirius had written Harry into his will). He had no choice but to obey. He glared at Sirius, making his displeasure as plain as he could, despite the limitations imposed on him by a house-elf's servitude.</p><p>"Kreacher lives to obey master's orders. Master is not worthy to live in the house of his forebears, oh, if only his mother knew, her heart would—"</p><p>"Kreacher!" Sirius said, cutting across the house-elf in his loudest voice, drowning out whatever insults he was hoping to use to goad Sirius into abandoning his plan. He took a deep breath, as Kreacher quietened, in and out. "I have a favour to ask of you. And a confession to make. You were closer to Regulus than anyone else alive. You know my parents didn't care about him. They'd have disowned him, if there'd been any <em>real</em> proof that Reggie had changed his mind. He didn't want to join the Death Eaters, I don't think."</p><p>He shook his head. "I should have been there for him. Maybe, I could have saved him from whatever ended up happening to him. I don't know.</p><p>"But, you do. You must. I wasn't there for him—although I should have been—for the last few years of his life. I abandoned him. I left him to his fate. But, you were there. You must know something about how he died. Please, Kreacher, I'm begging you: please tell me what happened."</p><p>That "please" made the request a request, and not an order. Kreacher was free to ignore it. Such a plan could easily backfire. He thought again of what Dumbledore said, thought again of what Harry said, and swallowed his pride. He was not above begging.</p><p>Kreacher began muttering furiously to himself. "Oh, see how Master talks, as if he understands what poor Master Regulus endured. What should Kreacher say? Should he speak? No! But how else would he fulfil Master Regulus's last request? Perhaps, he should say something…."</p><p>"Please, Kreacher," Sirius said, again. "You must know. Tell me how he died!"</p><p>For a moment, he forgot it all, his resolution to try to win Kreacher over by treating him as he would any other old house-elf. With patience. With kindness. Gently, gently.</p><p>Kreacher sent him a mulish glare. "Kreacher doesn't know how Master Regulus died. Kreacher wasn't there," he admitted, at last. Sirius blinked, stunned. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected.</p><p>But Kreacher looked so utterly forlorn and forsaken at this admission, as if he'd been set one task in his life, and he'd utterly failed at it, that Sirius did forget, for a moment, that Kreacher wasn't just any house-elf. For the first time, he was stirred to pity at Kreacher's plight.</p><p>"You…weren't there?" But, he must know something. He'd said something about Regulus's "last request". Perhaps, he hadn't been there when Regulus had died (the geas the House of Black laid upon its elves was a powerful thing, preventing Kreacher from lying to him), but he'd been there shortly before, had been certain that Regulus was about to die.</p><p>Sirius remembered to be gentle, to be kind. Kreacher was clearly as devastated as Sirius was, himself. He stood from his chair, and knelt on the floor next to Kreacher.</p><p>"Kreacher won't tell. Kreacher keeps masters' secrets—"</p><p>"Kreacher, tell me what happened—whatever you know of what became of Regulus. What was his last request?" Sirius realised that he'd violated his own rules for how he was going to go about this, yet again. It was easy to forget, with Kreacher.</p><p>Kreacher gave him a sullen glare, but launched into a horrifying story of torture, and a potion that made you relive your worst memories, hidden at the end of a cave riddled with traps, across a lake of stagnant water. He seemed to relish in Sirius's horror, until he came to his description of how Regulus had made him keep force-feeding him the potion, until it was gone, and Regulus could retrieve it. And then, the horrifying account of Regulus crawling to the water, and the inferi swarming up….</p><p>Sirius was impulsive, and rash, and quick to anger. Azkaban had done nothing to teach him impulse control—if anything, it had made him more reckless, more irresponsible, eager to live again, after such a long time behind bars. He could feel his heart hollowing itself out, to make room for the anger that would shortly flood him. Hysteria bubbled up, again, the most natural response to such a horror story. But, he forced himself to listen, instead. He owed it to Regulus.</p><p>He listened to Kreacher's tale of horror and woe, and felt something new stir. He opened his seventh sense, suspecting he knew the answer to the question for which he sought. Kreacher had not been able to keep his promise to Regulus to destroy the locket, and—</p><p>There was something else, too. Regulus had made him promise not to tell the tale of what had become of him. Kreacher had failed Regulus thrice, now, on account of Sirius. Sirius had forced him to break his promise to Regulus. Kreacher had wanted to stay there to the end. But, Regulus had saved him by forcing him to leave. A poor way to repay Regulus's sacrifice.</p><p>A twinge of conscience—Kreacher had borne this knowledge, this burden, alone for over a decade. And…what effect might that dark artefact have had on him?</p><p>With his seventh sense open, and his own limited training in interpreting the highly symbolic and confusing data it provided, he could see the locket (or what he thought was the locket) hidden under Kreacher's shift, stretching out dark tendrils of malice. How would it be, to live with that affecting you, night and day, for over a decade? Perhaps, not all of Kreacher's malice was his own.</p><p>"Kreacher—" he began, and then cut himself off. For the first time, he thought he understood Kreacher. He swallowed his pride, and forced down a heavy lump, through his throat, and into his stomach, as far as he could tell. He had to say it. "I'm sorry. I should have been there. I should have helped. You've suffered for a long time, alone. Regulus would be proud of you. But, you haven't destroyed that locket, have you?"</p><p>Kreacher bowed his head, and looked away. There was an entire world between truth and lies, as Harry would be inclined to point out, and while a house-elf serving the House of Black couldn't lie to his masters, nothing prevented Kreacher from keeping silent. Sirius had given no orders.</p><p>He waited, instead. He might be impulsive and rash, more than before Azkaban, but that had also been tempered, somewhat, by Azkaban. He'd learnt patience, endurance, fortitude, there. He swallowed another hysterical laugh, running his hands through his hair.</p><p>He waited. He could wait for quite a while, now—longer than the ever-impatient Ron, if not as long as Harry, whose patience seemed boundless. He would not push Kreacher.</p><p>"I want to help you to fulfil Regulus's last request," Sirius said. "It's all that I can do for him, now. Kreacher, please, let me help you. May I see the locket?"</p><p>Regulus wasn't a Death Eater, had died fighting back against Voldemort. Sirius knew that, now. And he was determined that Regulus not die in vain.</p><p>There was a long pause, here, but then Kreacher reached under his shirt, slowly, and Sirius winced as tendrils of badness and malice broke off from where they were embedded in Kreacher's flesh.</p><p>Kreacher held out a locket of tarnished silver, that gleamed with a vitreous, and not metallic, lustre. There was a dimness around its gleam.</p><p>Sirius noticed the engraved letter 's', taking a moment to wonder if this could be Slytherin's locket, a fabled artefact of the Founders. Dark magic seeped from between the crack where the two helves joined together. He sensed that it resided in that hole where a picture or portrait was meant to be kept. He frowned down at it, but he couldn't make enough sense of it.</p><p>"Perhaps, we should ask Dumbledore—" he began, and that was enough for Kreacher to snatch the locket from his grasp. Sirius held out his hands in a placatory gesture.</p><p>"Okay, okay, we'll leave Dumbledore out of this, for now, at least. How about my godson, Harry? In some ways, he's a better choice—knows more about magic than anyone I've ever met. He might be able to make better sense of what that thing's made of."</p><p>Kreacher's eyes widened. "The boy who is the heir of the Potter House? There is something very strange about him—"</p><p>Sirius's fists clenched. To be fair, Harry wasn't entirely human. His behaviour <em>was</em> pretty odd.</p><p>"Would you be willing to let Harry look at it?" he asked, in a voice of strained politeness. Who knew that Molly would prove useful practice for dealing with Kreacher?</p><p>Kreacher turned his snout up, and then paused, perhaps remembering something about Harry that made him hesitant to dismiss him out of hand, or perhaps attributing to Sirius superior skills at boxing the house-elf in with instructions than Sirius indeed possessed.</p><p>"He will not tell?" asked Kreacher, with watery eyes narrowed. In a way, Sirius could understand Kreacher's paranoid determination to keep this secret—it was the last will of Regulus, tainted by the poisonous influence of that curst locket. And perhaps, too, Regulus's request had been influenced by the locket. It was in the nature of dark rituals to try to keep their own natures secret, to bend the universe to their own wills.</p><p>"The Potter brat would know how to destroy the locket?" Kreacher asked, with a sort of heavy, smothered hope. It was the sort of hope that results when you become accustomed to building up your hopes, only to see them dashed, time and again. Sirius knew the sensation well, and was, for that reason amongst others, more willing to overlook Kreacher's overt disrespect of Harry.</p><p>"Harry is the next heir to the House of Black, and, as you must tell no one, a being quite beyond your understanding. You will treat him with the respect that he deserves." The bite in Sirius's voice was less than it might have been in other circumstances, but it was still sharp as the crack of a whip. Nothing could be heard of Kreacher's murmurs but the resentful tone of ill-use to them, showcasing once and for all that he did know just when his voice could and couldn't be heard.</p><p>Sirius made a mental note to contact Harry <em>first</em>, and explain the full story of Regulus Black to him. He already felt the need to brace himself for the inevitable stream of reproachful "I-told-you-so"s that would ensue.</p><p>"No one, Kreacher. I mean it. And, both on account of his status in this family, and…other things, treat him with the utmost respect. None of this nonsense you pull on me."</p><p>He knew that Kreacher had no choice but to obey. But, he'd also find loopholes in Sirius's terms. He'd need Harry to close them off when he arrived, to point out the holes in his oathbindings. Harry was good at that. Or, at least—</p><p>"Thank you, Kreacher. You may return to whatever you had been doing," he said, hesitating before reaching into his pocket for the mirror that he kept on him at all times.</p><hr/><p>Getting Harry to Grimmauld Place for a Hogsmeade weekend had been difficult to manage, but absolutely necessary. The Hogsmeade weekend had been situated sometime around Easter, as if to give everyone plentiful opportunity to stock up on Easter candy.</p><p>Harry informed him, upon arrival (or was that <em>reminded</em> him upon arrival?) that he had been banned from all Hogsmeade visits. He seemed quite pleased with this fact, and perhaps equally that he'd managed to flout it twice, without being caught.</p><p>But, his moment of triumph was short-lived. He had scarcely had the time to throw off Sirius's crushing hug, and to finish his explanation of his escape by saying, "…and besides that, <em>Grimmauld Place</em> is hardly <em>Hogsmeade</em>, now is it?" with an all-encompassing unimpressed look, before Kreacher, who seemed almost to have a sixth sense for when he was needed—as all house-elves had—trundled into the kitchen, as if by accident.</p><p>"What? <em>Kreacher</em>?" asked Harry, with the sort of casual scorn that few people pulled off as well. He stuck his hands in his pockets in a move that he must have stolen from Sirius, turning his gaze to Kreacher.</p><p>"Ah. I think I ought to have noticed that before," Harry said, staring at Kreacher. "But, this house is so full of malicious intent and spells that overtly <em>avoid</em> analysis that I suppose I was too busy trying to track them down to notice a migrating point of malice, and—is it <em>hiding</em> from me?"</p><p>His gaze snapped to Sirius, accusation that was almost hurt fading into a sort of distant authority that had <em>Sirius</em> wincing</p><p>"Explain," he said, and Sirius kicked himself for only telling Harry the bare basics, even despite the necessity, when anyone might be listening in. Who knew where Harry might be when Sirius contacted him, or who might be able to listen in? Umbridge was well-entrenched, by all accounts. All that he knew of her suggested that she was a monster, and that he didn't want her on the same continent as Harry.</p><p>"He needs to know the story, Kreacher," Sirius said, looking to Kreacher, as Harry stood by, impassive, although clearly trying to hide his bemusement at the strange alliance that had sprung up in his absence.</p><p>Harry stared at Kreacher, but gave no orders, made no requests. Kreacher squirmed under his scrutiny, and fixed his gaze upon Sirius, as if it would make it easier to speak. Nor could Sirius blame him. Harry could be quite alarming, sometimes.</p><p>Again, Kreacher relived the events of a horrific night, one that clearly had been preserved, somehow, in his memories, still fresh as if it were yesterday. Perhaps, that was the ordinary power of negative memories, or perhaps not. Sirius didn't know what special powers that locket might have.</p><p>Harry's expression darkened into a glower as he listened. Sirius had the strong suspicion that he was only half paying attention, but then, Harry was one of those rare people who could get away with it. But, it struck Sirius as likely that Harry was using much of his focus on analysing the locket with his seventh sense. Or in trying to hunt it down?</p><p>"A locket, 'the key to immortality'," he mused, as Kreacher's tale began to draw to a close. His gaze was fixed upon the location of the locket, despite not having been told that Kreacher had even brought it. "'You, more than any others, know how far I walked along the road to immortality'. I suppose he meant this. Dumbledore must be informed."</p><p>Kreacher took a step back. Sirius held out his arms in a placatory gesture, again.</p><p>"Here, now, I promised him that Dumbledore wouldn't be told." Kreacher ceased from his retreat. "You're the greatest magic-user of us all, Your Grace."</p><p>Harry turned his gaze to Sirius, but it passed right over him. Sirius felt as if he'd just been dismissed. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Sirius."</p><p>Harry held out an expectant hand. "Hand over the locket, Kreacher," he said, and there was something to his voice, a glimmer of expectance, as if the thought that Kreacher would not do as he was ordered was unthinkable.</p><p>Kreacher reached under his shirt and drew out the locket, and thrust it into Harry's hands. Harry glanced at the locket itself, and then closed his eyes, one hand clenched over it. They waited, as he hunted down the knowledge of what that thing was, the darkness Sirius had sensed.</p><p>At last, he sighed, opened his eyes, and unclenched his fist. "You must find a way to inform Dumbledore of the existence of this artefact—of that darkness. I recognise the magic, I believe. I have encountered it once before. Indeed, I once told you of it. Do you remember when I told you of the diary of T. M. Riddle?"</p><p>Kreacher reached for the locket, to snatch it back, but Harry had a grip of steel. His grip only <em>looked</em> loose.</p><p>Sirius inhaled sharply, but then calmed himself. The last time Harry had spoken thus, they'd ended up abandoning an explanation of the inner working of the Marauder's Map in favour of an extended heart-baring secret-sharing session.</p><p>"I see you have not been able to forget that tale any more than I who lived it," Harry said, with a bitter smile. "I well know how foolish this particular wizard is with his dark magic. But, the magic of it—it's just the same. Never elsewhere have I encountered a spell with such sentience as to attempt to hide from me. There is mind to it—or rather, <em>soul</em>, and malice. Whatever it is, it is of the same stuff as the diary. Dumbledore has been researching just that. If there are two of these, there may well be others. Perhaps, Dumbledore will know better what to make of them."</p><p>He paused, cocked his head, and turned to face Kreacher with shocking abruptness. "Here, now, Kreacher. I am not one much given to making promises, but those I do are those I mean to keep. Would you relinquish the locket into my care, were I to give you my spoken word that I would see it destroyed? I understand that you have been forced under a great burden—Ginny suffered as you have, and you have both displayed great strength. Allow me to relieve you of your burden."</p><p>He sounded so incredibly kind and well-meaning that Sirius found himself hanging on his words, or even wishing that anyone had ever shown him such easy kindness. It hurt to watch. <em>Only an act</em>, he thought to himself, but there was that about Harry: how much of any of this was an act, and how much sincere, could not be known.</p><p>"Come, now, Kreacher, you must agree that it is far more important to Regulus that his cause succeed than that you keep the promise you made to him. And, wearing this locket has taken its toll on you. He would not wish you to suffer. He would never have given you this locket had he known the difficulty you would have in destroying it."</p><p>Sirius watched Kreacher drink in Harry's words, rearrange his thoughts and Harry's words so that they meshed. Sirius was almost alarmed, and certainly in awe. "Now, you have allies. Regulus would be proud of you. And, if you wish, you may come with me to speak with Dumbledore. In this way, I can ensure that you see the locket destroyed with your own eyes."</p><p>A thought occurred to Harry here, and Sirius saw it occur to him. He was even fairly sure that he knew what it was. <em>Don't do it</em>! he silently begged. Harry, unfortunately, couldn't read minds. Last Sirius had checked.</p><p>For whatever reason, Harry abandoned that particular strategy. It was most likely the sheer intractability of the locket—the fact that its effects were obvious and difficult to isolate. Kreacher would know that the locket wasn't destroyed. Harry shrugged.</p><p>"Well, Kreacher? Shall we go to see Dumbledore together? I shall give you a bit of insurance, even. You must have noticed that I am not an ordinary wizard."</p><p>There was that awful, sharp-toothed grin that Sirius hated. It was full of bitterness and hurt, feral and wild, one of Pavlov's dogs. Sirius knew he had his own version, but Harry's looked particularly alarming. It usually silenced Hermione.</p><p>"My lord?" asked Sirius, uncertain, and realising that he was only digging them in deeper. He'd ruined the thing, setting them on this course by showcasing Harry as the ultimate expert on magic—which perhaps he even <em>was</em>. But, not Wizarding magic. Harry just grinned at him, but his grin was a hollow thing, too, devoid of any sincerity. Sirius kicked himself.</p><p>"We shall swear you to secrecy, Sirius and I, in every direction, and I shall tell you a secret that few know."</p><p>But, he cast an amused glance, aside, at Sirius. Sirius realised that Harry was not about to let Kreacher in on the whole secret, and was somehow reassured. It was somehow easy to forget that Harry knew what he was doing.</p><p>"Well, Kreacher?" Harry asked, and Sirius could tell that, somehow, they'd won.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A pity.  It was an above-average chapter in its first edition, a decent chapter in its second edition, and now it's just....</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Mars Is Bright</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry finally tells a centaur who he is.  Also, Harry helps Professor Trelawney with her studies as a sort of revenge against Umbridge.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>While Sirius was turning over the possible fate of his younger brother, what might have become of him, Harry remained, as it seemed to him, behind lock and key—trapped in an occupied Hogwarts. It was rather like being under siege.</p><p>Umbridge took umbrage to the article appearing in <em>The Quibbler</em> that aimed to shine a light on the dealings of the Ministry. She had banned all issues of the magazine from school grounds, which pleased Hermione excessively. She was inclined to be <em>smug</em> for her admittedly brilliant idea. Harry was tempted to avoid her, if only for that reason.</p><p>He could not be bothered to pay terribly much attention to quidditch this year. For one thing, he was banned (for life). For the other, they had won the Quidditch Cup only two years ago. He had no great need to ever win it again. He came only for Ron and Ginny, with the occasional concession that if Fred-and-George felt the need to put themselves through such torture, Harry might as well commiserate. He'd quite liked flying, borrowing his brother's arena though it was. He was absolutely certain that Ron didn't mind. And, Ginny was always appreciably sharp and clear-headed after a match (or even only practice).</p><p>Harry was throwing most of his energy into the Defence Association, which was kept on its toes by the intermittent "pop quiz". If they came through to the end of this, Hermione insisted with a glare, they would be quite as paranoid as Moody or Harry himself. He just grinned back at her. He knew that what she called "paranoia" was in truth merely the sort of caution that, in such a climate as this one, was necessary for survival.</p><p>Neville improved by leaps and bounds, despite his earlier successes, in the wake of the mass breakout from Azkaban, and continued to suddenly be possessed of great quantities of power and focus requiring an outlet. Ron was almost inclined to be wary of him, but Neville had much worse aim. (Well, go figure, that!)</p><p>Hermione, by contrast, progressed only little. There was little to be done with someone who grasped spells quickly, except to have her practice them until she remembered that they existed in a dangerous situation, and that she ought to be using them. She glowered and glared at Harry when he brought this up.</p><p>Marietta Edgecomb was trapped between a rock and a hard place, it seemed, but Harry thought he'd talked sense into her. She knew that this club was their last best defence against Riddle (or, rather, "You-Know-Who", as Harry was no longer used to hearing him be called), and Harry assured her that any mother worthy of the title prized her child's safety over even her job—even if, yes, that job was putting food on the table, and a roof over their heads.</p><p>Cho seemed to be hitting on Harry. He'd taken forever to figure that out. Ginny, who was by now progressing quite far into her ventures into wandless magic, strengthened by the Star Preserver Spell or not, was quick to intercept the worst of Cho's excesses.</p><p>"But, Cedric isn't <em>here</em>," was insufficient justification for her actions, but Harry could see that Cho Chang was a bit flummoxed by her own behaviour. It was probably just adolescence, and hormones, and whatever terms Stephen would put to the experience. It made Harry think he ought to avoid the Edgecomb-Chang corner as fervently as the Creevey one.</p><p>He'd had to give up excessive practice with Ron, limiting such "practice sparring" to once a week. Hermione would insist upon coming too, despite Ron's repeated attempts to keep her out of potential danger. Hermione would do anything for the sake of knowledge. It put Harry in mind of one of the myths he'd read in one of his reference books. She'd better watch out.</p><p>Umbridge's web drew ever tighter around them as the school year progressed. Without even Hogsmeade to look forwards to, Harry was growing restless. But, some of the tension was released by the year's first sacking. Umbridge attempted to evict Professor Trelawney, but Dumbledore had done some quick thinking, and made it possible for her to remain in Hogwarts—which seemed to be the only place <em>she'd</em> ever considered home, either, Harry noted. Trelawney lost only her job.</p><p>She was replaced by Firenze, which brought into Harry's direct line-of-sight one of the many problems he would insist upon putting off. Or at least, that had been the case last year. This year, he'd done his best, but the centaurs had been impossible to find. But, he'd seen enough of their arrogance, and knew their type, enough to know that the centaurs would begrudge him his failure to contact them sooner than this. Now, Firenze was on the out with the herd, as he confessed to the class.</p><p>At the end, Harry hung back, as requested, and held out a hand to clench a tight fist over Ron's arm as he was about to leave.</p><p>Firenze did not seem to mind being obliged to give his message to the both of them at once. Harry had to wonder "what" wasn't working, and why Firenze thought it was even a faint possibility that he and Ron could stop Hagrid, when Hagrid had rarely ever been known to see sense. Then again, those few times mostly seemed to involve Harry as the voice of reason. He had a long history of playing that role, but it was still somewhat galling to have to play that role for two different individuals at once.</p><p>"If the herd still desires information on my nature, I may have a way to return you to their good graces," Harry said, nodding when he'd confirmed the message. Such loyalty to his people Firenze must possess, to bear their messages and best interests despite their abuse and ostracism of him.</p><p>Firenze glanced at Ron, for some reason. He seemed almost…nervous. Harry's gaze shot sideways, to where Ron was bowing his head, looking sheepish, for once. That never lasted long. He was always a whirlwind of emotions. There was little you could do with him. He was…mercurial.</p><p>"Alright, Ron, what haven't you told me?" he demanded, running a hand through his bangs, and wondering what the odds were of him avoiding a headache. They were against it, he knew. More than that was difficult to say without knowing just what manner of secret Ron had kept from him.</p><p>"I…encountered the centaurs during our search for the acromantulai, at the end of second year," Ron confessed. "Although I do not believe that…<em>Firenze</em> was there, I am not certain that he was absent, and regardless, it seems likely that the rest of the centaurs were informed of…our meeting," he said. He stared down at the ground, and wouldn't meet Harry's eyes.</p><p>"What can have happened at this meeting?" Harry demanded, at his wit's end. Ron still wouldn't look at him.</p><p>"…I may have told the centaurs who and what I truly am." Harry felt his face spasm through his usually rigid self-control. <em>The</em> last to know. Even the centaurs, remote and disconnected to the world, knew before him.</p><p>Firenze examined Harry with a more critical eye, and Harry waited for the gavel to fall. Almost, he could hear the centaur's thoughts. <em>Ron Weasley is Thor, and it is well known that whithersoever as Thor might go, there goes his Shadow…</em>.</p><p>Such bitter thoughts! Those days were in the past (and in the present, if you felt the need to be obscenely technical, but not in <em>their</em> present).</p><p>"I <em>did</em> say that I would return and tell the centaurs what I was, if ever I had a better idea. That I was a mystery to myself," Harry mused, reminiscing. He seemed so different from that naïf first year, who still hadn't been as innocent as an eleven-year-kid was <em>meant</em> to be. Perhaps, it was the nature of this world. Perhaps, it was because of what Harry was, <em>whatever</em> that was.</p><p>He looked up at Firenze and then looked away, following the train of his thoughts out the room. "Well, it would seem that as compensation for your once saving my life, I might be able to give you a way back into your herd, in return. Do they still wish for more information as to what manner of being I am?"</p><p>A sharp intake of breath from Ron's corner showed that he was listening.</p><p>"I know who you must be," said Firenze, "but I have trouble believing it, myself. How could such a feat be possible? It is as if the stars themselves have drifted from their allotted courses."</p><p>Ron began to shift uncomfortably. Well, if he hadn't had his father break space-time!</p><p>"Perhaps, something that drastic," Harry agreed. What did he know, even after nearly three years of studying the material? Besides, Ron had traveled back in time—that alone had to have altered the course of events, at least somewhat. Perhaps, time and fate were of the sorts of nature as to fold and bend around change, like a river diverted, until it could return to its proper channel. Off-course for too long, who knew what might happen?</p><p>"Well, I will tell you, nevertheless, as repayment of my debt," Harry decided. He noted, somewhere, that Firenze was smart enough not to attempt to countermand this decision.</p><hr/><p>It was not an accident when he wandered into Professor Trelawney's office one lunch hour. She lived in a remote corner of the school (lest school politics and drama cloud her Inner Eye?), in a room adjoining the Divination classroom. An attempt to find her using his seventh sense would have been difficult, pointless, frustration. He'd just set off for the North Tower, climbed the trapdoor, and set about seeking for any sort of secret passage. There was one. This classroom was never in use. This made affairs at once easier and more difficult.</p><p>Harry had considered the merits of using his seventh sense to narrow down the scope of his search, but was fairly sure of what he'd find: here at Hogwarts, most of their instruments of use for Divination were bound to have acquired some sort of magical aura. It would have been an exercise in frustration.</p><p>Trelawney, with her fascination for subterfuge and sleight-of hand, smoke and mirrors, had hidden the doorway behind a gauzy veil. And, it <em>was</em> a real doorway. Harry supposed that the personalisation that Hogwarts afforded its teachers—even long-term residents—could only go so far. Otherwise, he was sure that she'd have had an archway covered by a jangling bead curtain. It was more her style, even, than the hidden trapdoor.</p><p>He was glad of the door; it gave him something to knock on, lest he interrupt whatever she was doing. Which, without her job to occupy her mind, or gleeful death scenes to foretell, seemed to consist of getting roaring drunk.</p><p>He did not want to catch her unawares. This was not the sort of conversation that he wished to have with her when she was less than aware, and awake, and presentable.</p><p>There were still beanbag chairs scattered throughout the room, and Harry spread some of the less fragile items he was carrying about, draping them haphazardly around what might be considered the backs of such chairs, to have his hands empty enough to knock.</p><p>He did not have the time to return for these before Trelawney, still looking tragic and distraught, appeared in her own doorway, eyes wide as saucers behind her spectacles, as she stared at Harry. She might have shown some support for him in the wake of Skeeter's article, but she clearly thought that Harry hated her.</p><p>Nothing he could do about that. "Mr. Potter?" she asked, with a sort of dejected, faded whisper, that even Harry almost had to strain to hear. "What brings you all this way…?"</p><p>He backed off into the room, and looked to the side of her, rather than at her. "Umbridge is a monster. I can't believe that she had the nerve to suggest that you were a fraud," he said, his voice full of genuine anger and vitriol, even if it wasn't born of a feeling of sympathy for Trelawney. She'd quite gleefully foretold his death, innumerable times. But that was not something to begrudge her. He <em>had</em> died, several times, even if it all were kept hush. Perhaps, no ordinary person (that was, one without the Sight) would think to predict the death of the Chosen One.</p><p>Then again, he was sure he'd developed the reputation as a trouble magnet long before he'd started her class, at the beginning of third year.</p><p>"I myself witnessed you give such a prophecy. Since then, I've been thinking. You do know, it came true exactly as you foretold. But, for some reason, you don't remember your prophecies. That means none of us know how often you give such vivid, specific prophecies—because you never have memory of them. And, if you want to train your subconscious to do something (and that is the seat of prophecy, is it not?), then you need to give that area attention."</p><p>Suddenly, he had a horrible thought, a suspicion as to why he'd remembered his past life, back when the dreams had begun. He'd wanted to understand them. He'd fed them his focus, and his desire, and he'd honed that part of his mind, just as he was telling Trelawney to—to that end. He'd brought it on himself, and charged through, heedless of any and all warnings. He'd no one to blame but himself, after all.</p><p>But, that was nothing more than a brief flicker of thought, occupying the space it took for him to take a step back, and start to turn back to where he'd left his dreamcatchers. Well, no, that wasn't what they really were. Not official ones. But, that was a good name for something designed to store dreams.</p><p>"These are dreamcatchers. In case you have prophetic dreams." She did not ask why there was more than one. Which was just as well. It saved him having to tell her that he was not entirely sure that they were stable enough to take the strain.</p><p>"<em>This</em>," he added on, thrusting the device into her hand, "is something to the effect of a muggle tape player. I made it from scratch and magic, and spent months trying to figure out how to make it isolate the feeling that comes of the presence of prophecy—there's a certain feeling in the air."</p><p>Describing it was impossible. It was a bit like cold electricity, a purer sort of energy. He'd had to key the "tape player" into recording when it sensed that. "If you carry it around, it will store everything you say that has a prophetic feel to it. But, what <em>you</em> have to do, is listen to what it says at the end of every day, and <em>think</em> about it."</p><p>He pointed out the relevant buttons, but he knew for a fact that wizards had found a way to create a magical version of radios—complete with buttons. Televisions were deemed "too complex" for the moment, and he didn't even think the wizarding world was aware of the leaps and bound muggle technology had already made when it came to cable, let alone what would become of such technology in the next few years. Oh, well. The point was, even Professor Trelawney was not confused by the existence of buttons and dials.</p><p>The cassette tape was real (a gift from Stephen, who seemed to understand the import of this undertaking), but Harry had fortified it to ensure that it didn't break down. Stephen had somehow found a two-hour long cassette, which he didn't need anymore. That had to be enough, for now, to store whatever of consequence as Professor Trelawney might say. If she followed his advice, then perhaps she could join her famous ancestress in the history books.</p><p>Professor Trelawney tried desperately to hold onto her pride, and reject Harry's gifts.</p><p>"I'm not saying you're not a genuine prophetess," said Harry. "I would hardly have worked so long, and faced such challenges, to make a tool for a fraud. What the use, for someone without the gift? But, we all of us can improve our skills, and now, with the Toad wreaking havoc on society, seemed a good time for you to retreat into you cocoon and emerge as a butterfly. Also, I want to know any prophecies that might refer to me. I do like being forewarned."</p><p>She was too self-conscious and insecure, after Umbridge had torn her down, to give much of a fight. Alcohol had made her weepy and less aware than she might otherwise have been, and lowered her guard, besides.</p><p>Harry only gave a cursory glance around her (mostly dark) room. The torches and candles seemed to be emitting more smoke than fire, and the window seemed to feel that letting light through was too much of a bother. It was a good thing that Harry had somewhat enhanced senses.</p><p>He did not comment on the fact that, although Dumbledore had interceded against Umbridge on her behalf, insisting that that woman could not evict anyone from the grounds, Trelawney seemed to be mostly living from her trunk. She took nothing for granted, did she? Harry could learn a few things from her.</p><p>"I don't know what Dumbledore was thinking, not telling you that you'd given not one, but two prophecies, before. I suppose he kept you close to know if you gave another, but did he ever check back on you?"</p><p>He shook his head, but it was not quite even in answer to his own question. Dumbledore was inscrutable even at the best of times. But, it occurred to Harry that Dumbledore hadn't treated Trelawney quite right, regardless of his motives. He hadn't treated her right even in the <em>tactical</em> sense. It was possible that even Ron would be appalled by this oversight.</p><p>Trelawney seemed to be beyond more than a token protest, helping him to set up the first of the dreamcatchers in silence, and slipping the tape recorder into her pocket. Cassette tapes are not very large, and the recorder, if such it could be called, was not much larger. It wasn't electrical at all, and the cassette was protected by many layers of spells. It was the best he could do. He wondered if she would throw it away as soon as he left, or follow his advice. She might become devastating, with practice.</p><p>He waved goodbye, fifteen minutes after his arrival, and left. He'd missed lunch, but it might prove to be worth the sacrifice. Besides, one meal would hardly hurt him. He had plentiful experience with that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Shame-Pain-Revenge, Umbridge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry at last hits his breaking point, and pulls some rather cruel pranks on Umbridge.  Also, we catch up to where we left Sirius, on Harry's side of the equation.<br/>(^^^from Scrivener index card)<br/>In which you learn that gaslighting is one of the worst things this author can think of for someone to do to someone else.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WARNING: GASLIGHTING AHEAD!  In fact, this chapter is the reason that that warning is in the tags.  I'd want a heads up.  It's mild, though.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although gryffindor won the second quidditch match (Ron and Ginny were, of course, both prodigiously skilled fliers), Harry barely noticed. He'd chosen to throw most of his energy into the Defence Association, and the special instruction of Ginny (and Neville, during the usual Defence meetings). It was quite enough for him to think on.</p><p>He did not need to have added onto this his status as the school's protector, a sort-of unofficial capacity thrust upon him by the Sorting Hat. "Professor" Umbridge was a threat to the school, to the very concept of education. She must be gotten rid of, one way or another.</p><p>Hermione's verdict as to a proper penance for her was still in the works.</p><p>Gryffindor had banded together as only they would. Theirs was a different, more familiar brand of loyalty than that showcased by Hufflepuff House. Gryffindor House was very "hold the line" loyalty, the sort of comrades-in-arms. It probably was not the best treatment for Harry's paranoia, but he knew that all of the boys in his dorm were behind him, which meant that he didn't have to be paranoid and on-edge <em>all</em> of the time. Ron took care of that for him.</p><p>Lee Jordan was in Fred-and-George's year, and thus his senior by a matter of years, being in his seventh and final. He was also a member of the Defence Association, which Umbridge must have suspected, but could not prove, existed. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Umbridge had dug her claws into him.</p><p>She made the mistake of doing this by means of those blood-letting black quills. This dragged Harry into the matter, rather forcibly. It was an intersection of his role as school protector, and that of "opponent of torture", which he objected to on grounds quite beside those of legality. Umbridge had crossed a line.</p><p>Harry only had to catch a glimpse of Jordan coming back, late from a detention from Umbridge, and notice the way he clutched at his hand. From there…Jordan was not a good enough liar to keep the truth from Harry, and he was less inclined in that direction, anyway. Perhaps, he felt a sort of common cause with Harry, for one reason and another—a sort of connection amongst pranksters, even retired? ones, crossed with Harry's own early experience with Umbridge's ideas of crime and punishment.</p><p>Harry made a resolution then, and saw Ron, shaking his head in resignation, brace himself to assist Harry in whatever foolhardy plan he'd come up with.</p><p>This was how Ron ended up keeping watch outside of Umbridge's office whilst Harry broke in, stole the quills, replaced them with carefully designed quills based off muggle pens, added a few more finishing touches for Umbridge's benefit (that was to say: to throw her off the scent, in case she realise that someone had broken into her office), and fled.</p><p>He did not bother disguising the fact that someone had been there, but Dumbledore and all the other professors who checked declared it quite safe, and completely ordinary in appearance if you could overlook the copious amounts of pastel and rose-pink, and those horrible kitten plates.</p><p>"Kittens?" Umbridge could be heard to shriek. "Is that what you see?"</p><p>It was indeed. Whatever monstrosities had replaced the kittens in their frames were for her eyes only. The depths to which Harry ordinarily refused to stoop were depths he resorted to, just this once, because Umbridge was the ultimate in "extenuating circumstances".</p><p>The next day, she was quite as distracted by the fact that she could no longer access her office without first spinning two wheels. It was like that muggle gameshow "Wheel of Fortune", perhaps. Maybe. Not really.</p><p>It was quite a complicated tangle of magical contingencies. Umbridge had no viable option but to either go to whatever location the second wheel required, and answer (truthfully) whatever question the first wheel asked of her, or to go away, and not use her office.</p><p>She went in, just the once, puffing herself up as she gave a loud and empassioned speech about how the Ministry was falling into a state of degradation because Hogwarts and Dumbledore were corrupting the nation's youth (an impressive extension of the wheel's request that she make clear her prejudices against half-bloods and muggleborns), and she had removed everything of any consequence from her office, bar the malevolent kitten plates. She ignored their dripping fangs and baleful glares full of glowing red eyes, and got out as fast as she could.</p><p>Harry was almost pleased with himself. She'd quite forgotten about her quills. She must, eventually, realise that they were fakes, but she would scarce dare returning to brave her office yet again. He'd take the enchantments off her rooms when the curse on the position took effect, and she was forced to leave.</p><p>Hermione buried her head in her hands, wondering what the world was coming to. Ginny seemed to know precisely what had happened. She was inclined to sulk. "I thought you only pranked people you <em>liked</em>," she said.</p><p>He shrugged in return, with a friendly smile, and scooted aside that she might sit next to him. "Well, I <em>did</em> freeze The Twins to their seats in my first year. I barely even knew them, then, and we hardly have a better rapport now."</p><p>"The real trick was getting those awful quills away from her. She'll have to reinvent them from scratch, I suppose," said Hermione.</p><p>"I didn't find any notes on their construction," said Harry, who was still rather irked by this fact. "Perhaps, she kept it all in her head. But, I couldn't chance a memory charm. Then she would have caught on. For now, her inclination to blame me for everything is working against her, and not for."</p><p>It was, indeed. No one would take it seriously, when she hated Harry so much that she was inclined to blame him for just about anything, real or imagined. She was already in a thoroughly bad humour because Hagrid had yet to do anything that warranted sacking, and Trelawney was progressing in her studies of divination to the extent that she was still quite pleased with her lot in life. She'd even stopped drinking, and had returned to offering mysterious nuggets of potential futures.</p><p>Harry, examining the quills he'd stolen, was making headway at least in his attempt to understand their natures. There were several spells nested carefully inside the greater spell of the quill, in the manner of a basket of eggs. Here was one for refraction that had several subcomponents to it, which Harry set aside for later. It was horrifying work, but necessary if he could find a bypass using wizarding magic.</p><p>Jordan seemed nonplussed by how much easier the punishments were to bear after Umbridge had been pranked. Perhaps, she was too distracted to take her usual sadistic pleasure in the suffering of others?</p><p>Harry took a moment to contemplate just how he could silence Jordan without revealing that he himself had been responsible on both counts—both for Umbridge's distraction, and for the lighter punishment.</p><hr/><p>It was a wonder that Hagrid <em>could</em> continue to keep off Umbridge's ban-list. It might have happened only because she was otherwise occupied with her attempts to quash the Defence Association, and to figure out how to bypass the spells on her office. Although Hagrid had been thoroughly distracted and had had no time to spare for Harry last year, and before that had kept an enormous, crucial secret from Harry concerning his own past, heritage, and family, Harry contrived to spend some time bolstering him against Umbridge's inevitable next move. He was shoring up all the probable objects of Umbridge's attack. Trelawney had been easy enough; Hagrid was more difficult.</p><p>For instance: just what had been giving him those bruises? There was more than a bit of omen in his enquiring about the importance of family. Why would he bring up the importance of family to Harry, who, for all he knew, had never known it?</p><p>Ron and Hermione had no better idea than he. Nor did Ginny or Stephen, who did have some sort of sarcastic remark to the effect that perhaps Hagrid was still reminiscing about his own.</p><p>Why now, though? Why, when Umbridge was out to get everyone who was liable to become a threat to her own power?</p><p>And, what did the message Firenze had given to Harry to give to Hagrid mean? <em>What</em> wasn't working? And, what did that have to do with Hagrid's family?</p><p>The iron grip on his stomach suggested a potential interpretation for Hagrid's words, but, so long as it did not directly involve him, Hermione, or Ron….</p><p>As if they could be that lucky. But, hey! Happy thoughts, right?</p><hr/><p>The next stage in society's attempts to induce the fifth-years into panic about O.W.L.s seemed to be a need to speak with their heads of house concerning their plans for life after Hogwarts.</p><p>Harry had completely different reasons to panic about this than most everyone else. Ginny, who was not in the know, but could guess at least a little of the reason for his panic regardless, smiled at him, and told him that he would do splendidly at anything he set his mind to. Their shared handicap must not be considered when planning for his future.</p><p>"You can plan as if you will die tomorrow," she said, "which some will say is the worst case scenario—but that just means not planning at all. It's lazy."</p><p>She shook her head, so that red hair whipped everywhere. Sometimes even her hair reminded him of fresh-spilt blood, no matter how much time they spent together.</p><p>At least they were on the same wavelength. And he knew from experience that Ginny would not be overly troubled at the thought of dyeing her hair to set his mind at ease. But, it was <em>his</em> mind, and he needed better control over this hyperawareness.</p><p>He kept thinking back to the Invasion—<em>that</em> was his future, and Ron's. At the same time, it lay in his past. But, regardless of causality and temporal flow, it still remained that no matter what he might wish for his future, the past, and duty, would drag him elsewhere.</p><p>Perhaps, he thought, with almost-wistfulness, he might at least have a chance to be an auror for a decade or so before he was called away to the war that was his true concern. All of his energy must be expended towards that goal—toward reducing the damage Thanos could create (that <em>Loki</em> could create), to the maximum extent possible. That seemed to require whosoever as he had recruited for this task and still lived by that time to be in New York in summer of 2012 for the Invasion.</p><p>But that was still over fifteen years away. Graduation was two years away. However long the auror training program took (and perhaps he could skip a few courses, if experience counted for anything, on account of defeating the current Dark Lord, once he'd done that; regardless, he had plenty of experience fighting Dark Creatures), it was possible that he might still have at least a decade on that track before he had to contrive his departure to the States.</p><p>Of course, he could also view the auror program as a mere stepping stone on the path of having a way clear to have the authority and reputation to intervene for the good of all in New York. Americans liked and trusted policemen, right? That's essentially what an auror was….</p><p>He did not trouble himself to discover what Hermione, Ginny, or Ron might wish to be—he knew that Ron, too, was only looking for a stopgap measure, a temporary position. (Or was that that he <em>hoped</em> that Ron was looking only for a temporary post? Ron seemed inclined to try to pretend that he'd live out the rest of his life here as a mortal, and then…well, who knew what he thought would happen after that?)</p><p>Later, he would discover that Ron had decided that the best course of action was to follow Harry into whatever profession he'd chosen. In this case, Harry had already made his objectives quite plain, which meant that Ron had no need to ask around or make any attempt at subtlety. He'd already been to see McGonagall, and had already told her that he intended to become an auror.</p><p>There was a long list of courses that he needed better grades in. Harry thought that Ron could probably accomplish just that, if he'd had any genuine interest in the field.</p><p>Perhaps, he'd favour accomplishing his long-term goals over watching Harry like a hawk to ensure that he didn't get himself killed in the immediate future. Were Stephen's continued visits not proof enough for him? Had he perhaps forgotten Stephen's introductory speech about the components required for his time travel (he'd be able to come back to advise them as long as Harry and Hermione survived—Harry to guide him to that place Stephen had called "Markhaven Meadow", and Hermione' to restore his memories). Harry and Hermione continued to survive in the present, and Stephen continued to visit. Really, by now time would probably collapse in on itself if either of the two of them died—it would mean that Stephen would never have gone back in time, but the two of them remembered meeting him….</p><p>It was one of those impossible things that it was pointless, but fun, to think of. Harry spent a bit of time doing just that as he waited for McGonagall to speak with him. He did need the occasional reprieve from attempting to plan for an (hopefully) ever-shifting future.</p><p>The last thing he needed before entering a conference concerning what should be one of the most important decisions of his life (although he knew that it was in truth <em>not</em>, and had to find some way to pretend that it was) was to dwell on the immutability of fate, which would render futile his attempts to shift the future into a more propitious direction, or to remember that Sirius was to die at the end of this year.</p><p>Or, at least, that was what he thought before he remembered Umbridge. She <em>would</em> be able to ensure that she could sit in on his session in particular, wouldn't she? But both he and McGonagall ignored her, in his own respective way—McGonagall with her usual waspish obstinacy, Harry with a sort of innocent disregard. While she knew him well enough when he was irate and inclined towards pacing and ranting, this other side of him, a quiet sort of anger that he could only call <em>hate</em>, seemed to throw her for a loop.</p><p>Good.</p><p>For once, he left a meeting with Umbridge with no greater desire to murder her than that with which he'd entered. McGonagall had helped little in that regard (although it was nice to see her get a little of her own back). Umbridge had simply already stooped to such lows that there was no longer a bottom to drop out beneath her. She'd become the elephant in the living room. They'd ignored her, knowing both of them that someday the Ministry must surely recognise its mistake.</p><hr/><p>Professor Snape, to his surprise, stopped him after the next Potions lesson, holding him after to inform him that "although I accept only those students who have received an 'Outstanding' in Potions, if you receive a lower grade, buy the textbooks for the upper years, and I will teach you myself." Harry was left reeling, and wondering just what sort of impression his mother had made on that man. His mellower nature was alarming enough! Now, was he showing Harry actual <em>kindness</em>?</p><p>But then, the council was over, and Harry had other things to think on. There were the O.W.L.s, it was true, but there were other things, too.</p><p>Such as, for instance, Sirius's missive. A request to speak with Harry, as soon as possible, and a need for Harry's expertise? In what theatre did he have expertise, if not magic?</p><p>And, of course, it could never be <em>Harry</em>, per se, to whom Sirius would turn for such assistance. Dumbledore was the authority on wizarding magic. Perhaps, Harry was a master of magic, or perhaps not—he sometimes wondered what theatres of magic he'd never even heard of, what gaps in his knowledge (not to speak of his memories), remained.</p><p>Sirius must have found something that he thought crucially important, to call Harry away from school, particularly in fifth or seventh year. Those were the two most important years of a wizard's education, and Sirius could scarce have forgot that—although Harry doubted that Sirius, whose priorities tended to eschew the normal delineations in the favour of more fundamental values had spent his fifth year in a constant tizzy over what would happen at the end. Sirius was, in other words, a cool customer. He could keep his head, when the going got tough.</p><p>Harry had been forced to tell the Twins of his need to return to Grimmauld Place during the next Hogsmeade weekend. Ginny had put him onto it, of course. He'd brought her into his mini-council of war. It was important that he get to Grimmauld Place without receiving help from Dumbledore, and without Umbridge knowing. There must be a reason that Sirius was keeping the objective secret, after all.</p><p>The Twins had come through marvelously, claiming that N.E.W.T.s were overrated, when they'd already got their O.W.L.s, and used the opportunity to advertise for their joke shop (coming soon!). Harry grinned at Ron burying his head in his hands at this announcement.</p><p>From their distraction, he had the cover to enter Umbridge's quarters to use her personal fireplace. It was the only one he thought might not be bugged. But, he didn't know of any other fireplaces that he knew worked in Hogwarts, other than Headmaster Dumbledore's.</p><p>He knew from asking Hermione (still the only one to have read <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>) that the Gryffindor Common Room fireplaces had been barred from the floo network centuries ago, to prevent foolhardy gryffindors (which was redundant) from rushing to their deaths trying to save the poor lost souls of the Inquisition, and other witchhunts. Only a gryffindor would attempt to cross continents via fireplace to save a complete stranger.</p><p>The slytherin fireplaces were barred because slytherins of recent centuries had used them primarily to sneak off grounds to prank unsuspecting muggles. Harry got the point after those two examples, and knew that reasons would have been contrived—perhaps even fabricated—to keep both ravenclaws and hufflepuffs within the school bounds. Only the professors would have fireplaces free, and Harry liked the thought that, even if his footsteps were traced, it would lead to Umbridge. That would have to reflect badly upon her.</p><p>From Umbridge's fireplace, he'd easily made his way to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He'd heard out Kreacher's story, and somehow convinced the house-elf to show the thing to Dumbledore. He knew that it was important, mostly because the diary had been much the same. And, he knew that there was little that Dumbledore could do with the artefact if Harry had destroyed it—he had not seemed able to make much of the diary, after all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Thicker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ron and Harry destroy the locket.  Also, they learn of Grawp.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The unfortunate thing was that, in the wake of all of Umbridge's revolution, and everything else he had had on his mind, from occlumency to prophecy, Harry had quite forgot that Dumbledore was avoiding him. He and Kreacher had spent a perilous few hours camped out in something like hiding by the entrance to Dumbledore's Office, with Harry occasionally leaping up as he thought of the name of another sort of candy.</p><p>He was suspecting that Dumbledore knew that Harry understood his tendencies, and had switched the passwords to something ordinary, just to shut Harry out. Was that paranoid? Perhaps. But, it couldn't be denied that Dumbledore had been…scarce, all this year. And, Harry did not trust McGonagall <em>or</em> Professor Snape enough try to send word by way of them. McGonagall, experience dictated, was liable to listen to him, and then disregard his words anyway. Professor Snape was inherently suspicious, even if he <em>were</em> on their side, and utterly beholden to Harry's Mum's goodwill.</p><p>Hagrid he trusted rather more than either of them—or rather, he trusted him in the sense that he believed that Hagrid was well-intentioned, fighting for the good, and a loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix. He could not, however, be trusted out-of-sight with a secret of any consequence, as he'd proven time and again. And, after Hagrid, Harry's regard for the other members of staff at this school abruptly took a nosedive. He had greater regard for Mrs. Figg than many of them, with whom he had exchanged not more than fifty or so spoken words during his entire stay in Hogwarts thus far.</p><p>At length, Harry conceded defeat, and sought for Hermione and Ron. It was the wrong day of the week for Stephen's weekly visits, which was a shame, but you couldn't have everything. Harry had productively stared at the locket as he'd shoved aside his mind's frantic efforts to think of untested names of candies.</p><p>He knew the feeling of the locket, or, more accurately, the feel of what hid within. A book was a world of its own, even a diary, and the entity or fragment of soul that had hidden itself within might have scuttled off into whatever between place a book naturally held within.</p><p>The locket had no such luxury. That space within, where a picture was meant to rest, was small and cramped, and there was little room for the fragment to fold itself down. Little room for it to hide. He wouldn't open the locket (but he suspected that he <em>could</em>, if he dared to spring whatever traps had been laid on it, which he did not, yet). He stared at it, trying to understand the nature of the malicious intent, from the vantage point of an outsider.</p><p>He understood progressively more as time passed, waiting for the absent Dumbledore. He would know the feel of the magic, what made it what it was, if he encounter it a third time. Something within him seemed to call out for the strange magic, and that unsettled him. He didn't know what to make of it, if it were the byproducts of a fit of madness, or an innate weakness of his character. He saw a burgeoning threat, and knew that he'd need Ron's help with this. Bother.</p><p>But, he understood the magic, founded as it was on blood, shot through with the unwilling lifeforce of a victim. He would know it on sight if ever he see it again, regardless of whether or not it was foolish enough to try to hide from him.</p><p>When he'd done with waiting for Dumbledore, and had decided to go back to Gryffindor Tower, or something, to find Ron (wishing as he did that he even knew whether or not it was within his abilities to learn that spell that had guided Ron to him before. Somehow, he suspected not), he pushed off the wall by the gargoyle, and, motioning for silence, led Kreacher through the halls of Hogwarts.</p><p>It had been hard enough sneaking to Dumbledore's Office, but it wasn't as if he'd known that he'd need to set up an appointment before. Kreacher had, begrudgingly, used house-elf magic to bring them back to Hogwarts. Perhaps, he visited often. If they could just find Ron, Kreacher already had a failsafe way to return to Grimmauld Place.</p><p>If that was what apparation felt like, then it was Harry's new favourite mode of transportation. Portkeys and floo powder were both horrendous. All the same, he thought it might not be prudent to provide someone like <em>him</em> with a painless means of instant transport.</p><hr/><p>They resorted to sneaking through Hogwarts together. It was lucky for both of them that they were each, independently, rather skilled at skulking about and diverting attention from themselves. Harry had a lifetime at the Dursleys as practice (and some experience from <em>before</em>, too). Kreacher, perhaps, had his time spent as a servant to the House of Black. Or, at the very least, he had the time spent over the past two years, avoiding Sirius's eyes as he strove to collect and preserve what he could of the family heirlooms.</p><p>Still, perhaps this would be an eye-opening experience for Kreacher—that those outside of his beloved twisted masters could be worthwhile individuals, that Sirius was not so bad of a master. Could Kreacher be brought 'round?</p><p>Kreacher seemed to have a certain amount of respect for Harry, already, perhaps on account of their shared ability to hide from those to whom they wished to remain unseen.</p><p>They made it to Gryffindor Tower, and picked up Hermione (and the basilisk fang) on their way to find Ron. Harry remembered that he'd left Ron, Fred, and George as guards outside Umbridge's Office. Surely, they couldn't still be there?</p><p>They had the sense to have left in the hours that Harry had been gone. Harry fished out the false galleon that was their message board for the Defence Association, and wished that it could single out individuals. They needed, as he realised only now, a means of contacting one another from afar. One not reliant on those galleons, or two-way mirrors. At least, for his inner circle of wizard (and pseudo-wizard) friends.</p><p>His fist clenched tight over it, and he, with a certain amount of apathetic ruthlessness, tracked down the spells Hermione had placed upon it. What he learnt was that he had the master key. His false galleon functioned differently from all of the others, was different down on a fundamental level. He was almost inclined to demand that Hermione hand hers over, but knew that it would be no more help than his. They were all keys into <em>him</em>, and not the other way around. He frowned.</p><p>"We are going to have call signs, and I am going to come up with a way to keep in touch with the members of the Defence Association in my inner circle," he announced to Hermione. Her eyes widened, and she seemed to be struggling to find some way of talking him out of it.</p><p>He ignored her, to work on how such a spell could be made, and just who warranted inclusion. He, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, certainly. Most likely Neville and Luna, as well. There were few other candidates as promising.</p><p>He put those thoughts and plans off, for now, as they finally stumbled upon Ron, who took one look at Harry, and seemed to realise that Harry was full of Purpose. Or, perhaps, that also had something to do with the unexplained presence of Kreacher.</p><p>"This locket that Kreacher lent us is an artefact of malicious intent, just the same as Riddle's diary," Harry announced to him without preamble. "I think I've figured out how to destroy it during my long wait for Dumbledore, who never appeared, by the way. But, I'll need your help. I don't like the way it seems to be speaking to me."</p><p>Ron looked thrice alarmed by this. Unlike Kreacher, he was readily able to snatch it from Harry's grasp. But, to Harry's shock, Ron seemed to sense something, too. Perhaps the locket was also trying to speak to him. Kreacher looked back and forth between them with narrowed eyes.</p><p>"Kreacher, if you weren't listening, we're going to find a deserted classroom, or something, and destroy this thing," said Harry, rolling his eyes. Ron staggered back, just then, leaning against a wall.</p><p>"Yes. Even <em>I</em> can feel the malicious intent," Ron said, seeming astonished by this fact. He fell back against the wall, as if under assault. Harry snatched the locket back, rolling his eyes. He'd been less affected than that. Just what was it trying to <em>do</em> to Ron?</p><p>He remembered that the diary, with prolonged exposure, had been able to possess people, and clamped a fist tight around the locket. He was not risking the security of his brother's mind for anything.</p><p>"The Room of Requirement," Ron said, with a level stare in Harry's direction now the assault had passed. He was at his most earnestly inscrutable. But, that was a good idea. The Room had hidden far bigger workings than Harry's plan to rid the world of this locket.</p><p>Hermione tugged on Ron's arm in a futile attempt to pull him down to her level, on the verge of tears, begging to know what had happened, and if he were alright. Ron was sensible for once, and declined to say anything with the locket in earshot. Hermione nodded her understanding, but stood there with tears quivering in her eyes.</p><p>Harry led the way to the Room, with some misgiving, but, for all he knew, house-elves had ways of finding things that wizards lacked. Hadn't Dobby mentioned finding that room last year, to look after Winky?</p><p>They reached the room before Harry had planned thoroughly for what he was going to do. He'd figured out that the safest thing to do would be to open the locket, and attempt to isolate whatever force lurked hidden within, and to murder it with the Sword of Gryffindor. But, he found that he didn't quite trust himself to do that, either. All he knew about the previous artefact was that it was insidious, and dangerous, and had somehow won Ginny over by its semblance of innocence.</p><p>He handed over the Sword of Gryffindor to Ron, for the first time in years, in complete silence. Ron stopped in the halls to stare, until Harry glared at him, and, although he'd just opened his mouth to ask a question, he closed it again, and they set back off.</p><p>Harry had chosen an empty hallway to accomplish this trade, thinking that it was best to be prepared and not to delay the moment they came to the Room. But, he should have realised that Ron would be too distracted by the thought of Harry freely giving up one of his few weapons.</p><p>"Did you hear it speak to you, too?" Harry asked, with a rueful glance away, and then back around at Hermione. He knew that Kreacher would never let the locket leave his sight. There was no point in ensuring he kept caught up.</p><p>Ron shifted on his feet. "I could feel it," he said, frowning. "It felt the way it does when someone tries to invade your mind."</p><p>Harry frowned, eyes narrowing. He remembered the Imperius Curse lesson of last year, in which fake-Moody had declared Ron immune to mind magic, but this sounded as if Ron had more background than that. Surely not experience with the Mind Stone—Harry would have known.</p><p>Unless it fell into that gap in his knowledge. The one he'd learnt of, first.</p><p>"Wanda Maximoff had similar abilities," Ron explained, in a voice that suggested that that explained everything.</p><p>"Who?" asked Harry, at a loss. The name sounded vaguely familiar. He thought he might have heard it before, from Ron himself.</p><p>Ron seemed to realise that Harry had no reason to know the name, but Harry waived the offer of an explanation until after this particular hurdle was crossed. They needed to fulfil Regulus's last request, and destroy that locket. Until then, Kreacher was an ambivalent presence, at the very best. Perhaps, however, with the locket gone, and his promise fulfilled by these three, Kreacher would think differently on them. That remained to be seen.</p><p>Until then, learning who Wanda Maximoff was would have to wait.</p><p>They arrived at the empty space of the seventh floor corridor. Kreacher suffered himself to be turned away from the wall by Hermione, to Harry's lasting surprise. He and Ron walked the space before the wall. With the Sword of Gryffindor, and Harry's ability to speak parseltongue, Harry could think of little else that they required, save for security, privacy, and the assurance that no one could burst in on them. Such as, for instance, Umbridge.</p><p>Harry thought that he could perhaps be forgiven, particularly given what had happened to him third year, if he had forgotten just what he'd used to destroy Riddle's diary, particularly since he'd kept the Sword of Gryffindor with him in his dormitory, as the more important of the two objects. Perhaps, he'd accidentally attributed to it properties that it in fact possessed.</p><p>Regardless, he'd brought the basilisk fang with him, as well. And, there was nothing to say (at that moment in time) that a Sword might not be sufficient for destroying the locket—particularly not a magical silver sword, of goblin-make, and many unknown qualities. That was why he'd happened to give the Sword to Ron.</p><p>Harry pushed open the door. No one was to know that he had brought the basilisk fang along, unless it prove necessary (if the Sword of Gryffindor somehow didn't work).</p><p>The door vanished almost as soon as they'd entered. Harry had wanted a lock, to ensure that they not be disturbed. He'd barely given Hermione and Kreacher the opportunity to enter.</p><p>This time, the room was square and small, and not in a cosy way. It put him in mind of dungeon cell. Perhaps, subconsciously, he'd thought such a location necessary. Maybe he'd been thinking that the locket was in a sense a prison for the evil within, one he was about to release into a greater prison.</p><p>"The moment it coalesces into a coherent mass, cut it down," Harry said, turning to Ron. Somehow, despite Harry's wordiness, Ron understood what he meant. Perhaps, he'd had far too much experience interpreting such.</p><p>Harry shrugged, and held out the locket, hanging it over a hook almost hidden in the dingy, sooty brick of the back wall. He'd made sure to request one, and the room was small enough that it was easy to find. If the locket affected only those whom it touched—</p><p>—Then perhaps the way to defeat it was not to touch it. Harry took a moment to dredge up the somehow unsullied pattern of how parseltongue was made. (He had known it would be intact, of course, because he had spoken with a <em>dragon</em> last year.) "<em>Open</em>," he said.</p><p>Hermione being Hermione, she interposed herself as a living barricade between the evil of the locket and Kreacher, protecting him against the unknown (but smart enough to ensure that he could still see what was going on).</p><p>The locket clicked open, and a black fog billowed out, thin and vaporous, difficult to make out against the grime. Suppose it didn't coalesce? Harry did the next best thing, thinking quickly, on his feet (his specialty, as it seemed), and made it a little box out of solid ice. And then, began to fill that in, forcing it to compress.</p><p>Ron stared. "Don't look so <em>surprised</em>," Harry snapped. He'd done this before, but not, he thought, while anyone else was there to witness it. But, he didn't think it had anything to do with Loki's place of origin. It was just that elemental magic was amongst the least magically taxing of the spheres of magic he knew. He wasn't here to put on a show. The simplest spell that would work, would do.</p><p>The locket, in another infuriating moment of anticlimax, had no opportunity to do anything (it seemed to be attempting to speak, and to take on a particular form, but it was encased in a huge ice cube). Ron cut through the whole affair of ice-and-locket-mist in a single thrust. Although it had been isolated from the locket, and the evil Regulus had truly sought to defeat had been destroyed, they had promised Kreacher that the <em>locket</em> would be destroyed. Harry might even have promised that he would destroy it personally.</p><p>Ron handed back over the Sword of Gryffindor without needing to be asked, as the mist evaporated in its cage. Harry impaled the locket, where it hung on the wall. There was a familiar, terrible scream, which had Hermione shivering in her personal corner, pale and shaking. But she stayed where she was, and did not seem frozen on the spot with fear, as she had in previous encounters. Progress. Ron abandoned all thought of what was to become of the locket next, to reassure her.</p><p>Harry took a step towards the locket, where it hung on the wall, and opened his seventh sense, seeing that everything that had bound the malicious entity to the locket had been destroyed as well. He took it off the wall, holding it out for Kreacher.</p><p>"Here, Kreacher. We have no more need of it, if you wish a memento of your Master Regulus. But, we must also someday go to that cave wherein you first found this locket. For now, if you wish to keep this one…."</p><p>He glanced at the hole in the locket, how it was burnt, as if by acid, around the edges. Hmm. If Dumbledore ever decided that they were on speaking terms, again, he would need to ask.</p><p>Kreacher darted forwards from behind Hermione, snatched the locket out of his hands, a look of humbled awe spreading over his features as he realised what Harry already knew.</p><p>"Kreacher is forever in the debts of Masters Potter and Weasley, sir!" said Kreacher. Harry sighed. He almost sounded like Dobby, like that. He hoped it stopped.</p><p>And, of course, Kreacher should be thanking <em>Sirius</em>, and <em>Hermione</em>….</p><hr/><p>Compared to the latest battle against Riddle (which in no uncertain terms could <em>not</em> be considered as standing in for the usual life-or-death confrontation that would perforce end the year), the adventure into the Forbidden Forest to meet Hagrid's younger half-brother was just that: an adventure.</p><p>Life was still laughing at Harry, which was sufficient explanation for him for why Grawp even existed. It was a pity Ron wasn't here.</p><p>Apparently, what wasn't working was teaching Grawp English. But, Harry and Hermione each spoke some French, to varying degrees. Ron, too. Hagrid, however, did not. Accordingly, Harry stepped forwards, before Hagrid could do something stupid, and blocked Grawp reaching for Hermione, spreading his arms wide.</p><p>"<em>Stop</em>!" he cried, in quite informal French. "<em>What are you doing? That's quite rude, you know.</em>"</p><p>Grawp narrowed his eyes, staring down at Harry, and Harry folded his arms. He didn't like being put into a position where he had to keep on the defensive, but he knew that he could scarce overpower Grawp without drawing attention to himself.</p><p>Hermione, meanwhile, regained some of her wits.</p><p>"Hagrid, what is he <em>doing</em> here?" she sobbed. "You said that none of them wanted to come!"</p><p>And, of course, it was another of those "but he's family" things, that life would insist upon throwing back into Harry's face. Ron <em>really</em> should have been here.</p><p>"How did it never occur to you that he might speak <em>French</em>, Hagrid?" asked Harry. "Didn't you say they were staying in the Alps? Didn't Madame Maxime make herself understood to them in French?"</p><p>He kept a cautious eye on Grawp, ready to intervene if he reached for Hermione again.</p><p>"What do you want <em>us</em> to do with him?" asked Hermione, who was still overcome by Grawp's sheer presence.</p><p>Still, it seemed sufficient proof that giants weren't evil.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was a bit late last time (sorry!).  Let me be a bit early this time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. At Markhaven Meadow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stephen lays plans with the Trio's future selves at Markhaven Meadow, and receives the invisibility disc.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stephen, pushing through the last of the trees and at last coming into the familiar clearing, thought that he could doubtless be forgiven if he were a bit late, today. He's had to fight off the unusually clingy Cloak of Levitation, which hadn't wanted to let Stephen out of its sight. He'd had to ask <em>Wong</em> for help, of all people. But, he wondered, after that, if the Cloak had known (like Aladdin's magic carpet in the Disney movie) that something bad was going to happen.</p><p>Namely, that he'd be gone for quite a while, this time, because it was finally time to hear the tale of how Sirius Black had died. And, to try to prevent it, of course.</p><p>He wished that he could bring the Cloak with him—and in the ordinary way of things he was quite as fond of it as it was of him—but his friends at Markhaven Meadow remained unaware of its existence, and he couldn't be sure how much they knew of sorcery—how much any number of future or past selves might have told them. He had no idea how any time traveler ever kept clear what information was and wasn't relevant, as he or she went about, willy-nilly, changing the past.</p><p>He did know some things—by now, he'd learnt how to tell when Loki was growing suspicious about the Eye of Agamotto, which he'd passed off as a sorcerous relic. But, had he ever told them something silly, to the effect of each sorcerer only having one relic? Beside that, anyone who spent more than a day or so with Loki developed a habit of paranoia. Even <em>Thor</em> had developed that, to an extent. He knew, most of all, that he did not want Loki to know that he was in possession of <em>any</em> of the Infinity Stones. He remembered the footage of the Chitauri Invasion.</p><p>He ran a hand through his hair as he tumbled out into the clearing. Today had been rather more trying than usual, and spending enough time around Loki let him know that under no circumstances should he ignore his intuition, such as it was. Something momentous happened tonight.</p><p>Or, rather, something momentous happened on the other side of time, and he was being prepared for that, well in advance (long after the fact?). But, for the moment, with no sort of plan for the future, he followed the neatly winding cobblestone path to the front door, and knocked. He didn't have to open the door. Nor did anyone else. He heard Hermione's voice call out, "Come in!", and the door clicked open. That was a spell that the sorcerers could afford to learn. Or find an equivalent to. It was a good way to avoid ambush.</p><p>He didn't think (and he wasn't sure <em>why</em> he didn't think this) that Markhaven Meadow had always looked as it did. Or, rather, he thought that, somewhere along the multifaceted streams of time, something someone had done on his account in the past had created another house located in the middle of the woods, also named Markhaven Meadow, but existing in a different form, and likely in a different place, than its alternate timeline equivalent.</p><p>This sense was, doubtless, exacerbated by the knowledge Stephen had had parroted back at him from his friends, that Loki's house had once been called Woodfield Palace, when he knew for a fact that he'd never heard of such a place. He'd always known it as "Patchwork Palace". But, if that were the case, whence the idea of the house called "Woodfield"?</p><p>And, he knew that this little evidence of the mutability of time would not convince his friends (particularly not the most sceptical of them). He wasn't quite sure that he believed it, himself. If someone had told him that in their universe, Markhaven Meadow had been painted dark green on the outside…well, he wouldn't have believed them—he was sure that Thor would never have stood for that—but furthermore, even had it been true, that wouldn't have been anything like an evidence of the ability to effect changes in the past.</p><p>It wouldn't have been proof that they could save Sirius.</p><p>He knew that the Cloak of Levitation had most certainly sensed <em>something</em> different about this latest trip when, rather than receiving a sedate nod from Hermione, Lady of the House, Loki came around the corner, as if he'd been waiting there since Stephen had left yesterday. There was a clock in the hall that he might have been staring at.</p><p>"Ah, Stephen," he said, leaning back against the wall, deliberately blocking the corridor by slouching down the sides (not something he'd do for any reason other than to bar the way). Somehow, he still managed to make it seem casual, as if this were a coincidence, rather than his design. This was not even <em>his</em> house.</p><p>Perhaps, it was in how casually he cocked his head, asking, "And what day are you heading back to, today?" with feigned interest, just as if he didn't already know.</p><p>The only thing that Stephen could think to do, other than to try to get the attention of Thor or Hermione, who most assuredly would be there to see him off, was to answer the question, and see just what the need for this ambush.</p><p>"You know as well as I do that today is June Seventh, 1996," he said. That statement was a lie, taken out of context, but there was a double meaning to the words, and it must not have registered as a lie to whatever lie-detecting sense Loki seemed to have.</p><p>There was a moment of silence, as Loki straightened back up, just slightly, to reach out his left hand, holding it up in a crossing guard's hand signal for "stop".</p><p>Most people would have lost their balance at this. Loki did not.</p><p>"Yes, I thought as much. It's the end of fifth year already, then. The end of O.W.L.s—but, you know, I don't think I would notice if you were a day late. Or two. Do you suppose you could come pay us a visit after our exams are over—on the night of the Ninth, I mean?"</p><p>There was <em>almost</em> a vulnerable stoop to his shoulders, as if this were a momentously important request, and Loki just didn't know what he would do if Stephen refused.</p><p>He thought he knew why. "Loki," he said. "You've told me before that Sirius died at the end of your fifth year—and we're getting to that point, with the end of O.W.L.s—there's just not that much time left in the school year. I don't suppose that has anything to do with your request."</p><p>In response, Loki stood up from his slouch, leaning against the wall still. He turned a haunted, defeated gaze to Stephen. Only out of desperation would he let anyone see him vulnerable. There were times when Stephen wanted to buy every book in the self-help section of a bookstore for this Trio.</p><p>"Yes, I suppose if you are to meet with any success in saving Sirius, I will need to give you the circumstances surrounding his death. But, I have a favour to ask of you, first. You're right. It <em>did</em> happen at the end of O.W.L.s week—on the night of the Ninth. It was because I saw the perfect opportunity to destroy Voldemort's prophecy, and drag him out of hiding. Force the Ministry to face the music. And, <em>that</em> worked well enough."</p><p>He gave a bitter laugh, head bowed, before it snapped back up to Stephen. It reminded Stephen of that night they'd first met, when the Boy-Who-Lived had only been eleven years old, but had nevertheless tried to kill him. Had the Cloak of Levitation been saying its farewells?</p><p>He glanced at the sanctuary afforded by the kitchen that he could dimly see past the corridor that Loki had blocked, wishing that he could burst through. Hermione and Thor were sure to be there, and most likely Ginny, as well.</p><p>"Will you promise me something?"</p><p>"Alright. What do you need me to do?" Stephen might not quite trust Loki with the secret (the temptation) of an Infinity Stone, but they were still his friends. On the Trio's side, it was a long-standing friendship, spanning almost two years. Even Stephen had been coming to Markhaven Meadow for almost three months, almost every day.</p><p>"Show up on the Ninth, and not the Seventh," Loki said, seeming to reach into his pocket for something, but the device he removed was far too large to have been hidden in even the deep pocket of his robes. It was a bit flat, and round, like a frisbee. Stephen had no idea what to make of it, or whether there were any significance other than camouflage to its being black, and flat.</p><p>"Keep this secret, and on your person at all times. We shall see if that which does not yet exist might be brought back in time—and function there. Oh, and Stephen: you should take a few months off from going back in time. All of that time travel can't be good for you."</p><p>Stephen took it warily, and did his best to open his seventh sense. He'd had no small amount of training with it, but it was giving him the slip, as when he'd first started with sorcery, and thought that he couldn't do anything on account of his ruined hands. But, he could feel a familiar energy laced throughout the entire "frisbee", crisscrossing it in a net, and supplying it with an absurd amount of power.</p><p>"Don't tell me," he said, his mind temporarily forgetting to function in the wake of this newest horror. "You supercharged the Death Stick, and spent the past month filling this with magic." He was <em>appalled</em>. That was the word. <em>That</em> weapon should be used only in the greatest of emergencies.</p><p>"Well, as long as you don't point it out to Dumbledore or Riddle, and keep it amongst the five of us, nothing will come of it."</p><p>Stephen noted that Loki did not deny the accusation, but did beg, "Don't tell Ron. You know how he gets about the Hallows."</p><p>Stephen did indeed know how Thor got about the Hallows. He himself felt much the same. Hermione and Ginny agreed, he knew. <em>This</em> was why Loki had ambushed him, and extracted that promise from him. <em>Damn</em>. He should have known better.</p><p>He opened his mouth to say something about how Loki was a manipulative bastard—fancy using Stephen's own words about vulnerability against him!—and then his mind began to function again, and he had a tendril of comprehension.</p><p>He knew how important Sirius was to Loki. And, he had to admit there was a certain emptiness, even to the future, where Sirius would have provided some much needed levity. Even Remus might have, had he not died in '98.</p><p><em>This</em> was a last-ditch effort, in a sense their last stand, for if Stephen failed, the past could not be changed, and this was all for naught. Perhaps some, at least, of that vulnerability was sincere. It was as he was thinking this that Loki continued. Hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed, he practically recited his speech off index cards.</p><p>"That's an invisibility device. Stark was working on it, when S.H.I.E.L.D. pulled its 'guilty-until-proven-innocent' act—by the way, tell me that I tried the honest, upfront route as you kept suggesting, and make sure I realise how terribly that backfired—" he paused to spread his arm to encompass the corridor, which meant less than it might have, and more than it should have. He meant the very existence, the necessity, of a Markhaven Meadow. It was right there in the name.</p><p>Loki shook his head. "This is based on Stark tech, except that I turned it inside out and, yes, funnelled some of the energy of the Elder Wand into it. This is an emergency, if there ever was one. Ron and Hermione are such unfailing optimists, but Stephen, even though I've put my strongest wards on this house, it's only a matter of time before either Thanos or S.H.I.E.L.D. finds us—regardless, the universe is doomed. I think I may have incurred the personal ire of Director Fury himself. Not my intention.</p><p>"I keep thinking that Sirius could have been a stabilising force—or, at the very least, we could have used his false imprisonment to convince them to stay their collective hand. With the Captain on the run after the Accords, and Stark pretending that he was hoodwinked, lest he admit to ever having agreed with the good captain, we have no allies to speak of. I don't think <em>Thor</em> Thor even knows we exist—that's the <em>last</em> option to consider; no way to turn back from that. The final resort. Do you understand—that's all that's <em>left</em> for us, Stephen! And, we're running out even of <em>that</em> time!"</p><p>Stephen was half of a mind to ask him just whence <em>that</em> certainty came, but kept his mouth shut. He suspected that, somehow or other, the answer might well be that it came from him, himself. That was the sort of thought that would break anyone's mind.</p><p>"An invisibility cloaking device," said Stephen, desperate to get the conversation back on track. Or near enough it.</p><p>"Take it, activate it when you reach Grimmauld Place, and stick to Sirius like glue. I know—I've thought of that night a lot—that you could never convince Sirius not to come. Fate will not be that readily thwarted. But, if you stay by his side, you might be able to tilt the scales a bit. Prove to me that you can change the past."</p><p>Stephen stared down at the disc. It was almost shaped like a record. It had those sorts of striations. It had no buttons, or knobs, or levers. It could be confused with a small black "flying saucer". Alien technology at its finest!</p><p>Yes, it was probably best he not say that aloud.</p><p>He opened his mouth to ask how it worked, and then realised that this was one of Loki's infernal <em>tests</em>. He picked the worst times. But then, Stephen was a sorcerer. He should be used to magic. Still… could he be blamed if it didn't occur to him that someone who used two different branches of magic, neither of them sorcery, would somehow create a <em>relic</em>?</p><p>It was not a relic. It did, however, seem to respond to sorcery, perhaps studying his magic the way fingerprint and retinal scanners learn the data for accepted fingerprints and eyes. Perhaps, it was memorising his magical signature, if there were such a thing,</p><p>Loki snatched it from his hands before it could make him invisible. He'd felt magic bubbling up, as if from a deep well, as if Loki had sunk one, created a reservoir of magic for the thing to draw from, and it had to be drawn up gradually, as with a pump, but after that, the energy would have flowed freely, until it ran out. That must be why the disc had been taken from him.</p><p>Loki handed back over with a significant glare, and Stephen, resigned to his fate, stuffed it under his arm and tried to forget it was there. He was better at subtlety than Thor, but so was just about anyone. The Trio had told him that there was a man named Hagrid who was more direct, but that seemed to run them out of candidates. It seemed to be a source of some contention amongst the three of them, but then, so did many things that in truth weren't.</p><p>"Shall we go, then?" Loki asked, straightening all the way up. To all appearances, he was out for a stroll. This was not his house (this was not either of their houses), but that didn't stop someone like Loki. This time, he was even justified. But, was <em>Sirius</em> the crux of the entire situation? It seemed incredible.</p><p>They made their way into the kitchen, at last, where Hermione was running to and fro as if this accomplished anything. He thought that she had probably picked up the habit of looking as if she were very busy from Stephen himself.</p><p>Thor, by contrast, was staring at a clock set high on the kitchen wall. One or another of them had once told Stephen of a magical clock belonging to Mrs. Weasley (he'd never met the woman, and thus he'd perforce adopted the same name for her that Loki and Hermione used, not knowing her given one). Try as he might, Stephen could see nothing particularly impressive about the clock on the kitchen wall in Markhaven Meadow. It was an ordinary, cheap clock—the sort they used in public schools. Despite that, Stephen knew that Thor wasn't thinking that Stephen was late—although Hermione might be.</p><p>"Stephen!" she said, almost dropping the pitcher of water she was holding, which would have been a shame, as it was ceramic. That was the sort of material even a <em>reparo</em> could only do so much with.</p><p>He reached out and took hold of the handle, instead, with his free hand, and watched Thor turn to face him, as if just now noticing he was here. Ludicrous. He would have noted them both entering. Hermione probably would too, but she didn't have the heightened senses that those two did.</p><p>"Sit down! I was just making tea!" Hermione said, pushing him towards the table. Somehow, Loki was already sitting there, just as if he hadn't set an ambush out in the hall. Of course, one or the other might be an illusion.</p><p>Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose, applying pressure to his forehead. Was there any remedy that <em>worked</em>, against headaches?</p><p>"Stephen. I am glad that you are well. For a time, I thought, perhaps—but that is not the matter at hand, at the moment." Thor might be the only one not to know that Stephen and Loki had already discussed the matter of Sirius's impending (long-ago) demise, less than a minute ago.</p><p>He glanced over at the corner of the table, where what had to be either a duplicate or the real thing was sipping his tea, calm as you please. That tea had probably gone cold hours ago, too. Stephen was sometimes convinced that he did such things just to prove his superiority.</p><p>"Sirius is going to die," Stephen said, cutting across whatever tangent they might have embarked upon. You never knew, with the Trio. They had a whole series of familiar arguments that they fell back on, to vent their stresses prior to any sort of engagement of higher stakes. A few topics would emerge repeatedly. <em>Which</em> would appear at any given point of time was impossible to tell before it happened, but Stephen could almost <em>sense</em> the conversation heading into one of those squabbling off-roads. He was guilty of it, too, but here, now, he rather thought that solving the problem at hand was of primary importance.</p><p>"That's right," Hermione said, bowing her head, and setting down her ceramic pitcher onto the wooden table, not wanting to risk continuing to hold it in shaking hands. She was the one who thought Sirius selfish and irresponsible. And, he was one of Stephen's friends, too—sharp as a tack, and quick-witted. Stephen could see the remnants of a strong personality with whom he would have enjoyed butting heads and exchanging ideas. But, the mind was fragmented….</p><p>Still, he'd died too soon. The Trio needed him. And, perhaps, the addition of whatever sort of spark of brilliance Sirius had—or even his unique experience and circumstances—might be integral in solving their current problems. He'd solve the further problem of "what if I save Sirius and the Trio are still on the run in the future?" <em>if</em> he ever saved Sirius.</p><p>"It seems to me that you deserve some knowledge of how it began, and what happened that night, to our memory of events. I could just tell you about his duel with Bellatrix Lestrange in the Room of Death, in the Department of Mysteries, but what good would that do anyone?" Loki rested his chin on his hand, but turned his head to glance at Stephen askance. "There are a hundred ways to die in that section of the Ministry. I suppose that's one of the many reasons it's restricted to authorised personnel."</p><p>Stephen did not say that they were, all of them, teenagers at the time, and thus not even possibly authorised personnel. That would lead to a discussion on culpability, and whether or not Loki was to be blamed for Sirius's death. That never ended well.</p><p>Instead, he just nodded his acceptance of this (he had little choice), and leant back in his chair, as Hermione, ever the gracious hostess (or rather, in constant need of something to do, to curb her own anxiety), bustled about making tea for everyone, and listened to the tale of the night of June Ninth….</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. The Illusion of a Fork in the Road</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry makes Pogs, Riddle lays a trap, and Umbridge gets to torture kids.<br/>(^^^from Scrivener index card)<br/>Sometimes, there just isn't a good choice.  Harry and Ron make the best of it, regardless.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>O.W.L.s week had not had a good beginning. It was whispered throughout the school that Umbridge's pejoratives and extremism might have merit, if she were to somehow elude the rumoured Curse upon the Defence Professor position. This meant that, one way or another, she needed to be put out of the way. At the very least, they needed to get her out of that position. Ideally, unspeakable horrors would befall her, but she had the luck of a saint.</p><p>Harry was in a bad humour even before Marietta Edgecomb and Cho Chang had approached him, both looking rather out of sorts, and exhausted (disheveled and worn, as if they hadn't slept that week), demanding to know what it was about Hermione's members list, and what anyone was to do, now that Umbridge was methodically carding out students by year and house, and subjecting them to veritaserum.</p><p>"She put some sort of protection against that, though, didn't she?" asked Edgecomb. This was a good point. He didn't know. But, Hermione was fretting about the exams she was about to take, and was scarce, and not to be disturbed, save for with a very long pole. Even Ron seemed wary of her.</p><p>For the moment, Ginny saved him from further pestering by glaring fiercely at both girls, which was just as well, as Harry was not about to ruin his alliance with Cedric Diggory by suffering the ministrations of Diggory's estranged girlfriend. Why she persisted was something that no one could figure out.</p><p>When he at last had a chance to ask Hermione about the list, she told him that any idiot knew better than to take any food or drink offered by the enemy, lest it be laced with poison or worse.</p><p>Harry (privately) thought that only applied to his close friends, and those who had spent long periods of time around him, or Alastor Moody.</p><p>The problem was that that should include the entire Defence Association. Hermione spread word throughout the Defence Association with the same runners she had used to first test the waters for the plausibility of attempting such. Warnings not to touch anything known to have come from the enemy was the most effort that she was willing to put into this project, and, without Hermione's list, Harry didn't know even what house all of the members were in.</p><p>But, she was right: they <em>should</em> know better. Constant vigilance! He let it pass.</p><p>Hermione was utterly convinced that it was imperative that they retrieve, and destroy, the list at the first opportunity. This gave Harry to realise that he hadn't seen the chest in which he'd hidden the list since that first day.</p><p>But, it was a real object. You would think that it must still be somewhere in the Room of Requirement. How did you go about retrieving such a thing? Weapons, clothing, supplies, even books, could be made <em>ex nihilo</em>—it made sense. This was a particular piece of paper. There was only one copy of it, and Hermione must have put some sort of enchantments on it. But, he could find no trace of it.</p><p>He resolved himself to going down to speak with Dobby on the nature of the Room, after he'd finished with his own exams.</p><p>He barely noticed Stephen's absence on the night of the seventh (although Ron seemed to be keeping better track). Who knew how sorcerous time travel worked? Perhaps, it was fickle?</p><p>No, Stephen had had much success with choosing a specific temporal destination, if you excluded the first few attempts (on the grounds of their being practice). But, Stephen could hardly be ignorant of the fact that this was O.W.L.s week. Harry remembered asking whether or not they had similar tests in muggle society in the United States. Stephen gave him one of his rare "you must be an idiot" looks, in response. But, the cultures seemed so very different….</p><p>He assumed that Stephen was late as a courtesy to them, and perhaps because he realised that Hermione would likely have murdered him with one of the defensive spells Harry had been teaching in the Defence Association (say, <em>reducto</em>). She would have been sorry after, but it would have been too late.</p><p>She might be even worse in the future, and Stephen might have some prior experience to draw on, to know that she was best avoided until the danger had passed.</p><p>These conclusions, while perhaps logical, nevertheless were inaccurate. Stephen waited because Riddle had been courteous enough to wait until Harry had finished his exams before attempting to lure him into a trap.</p><p>It was bad enough, Harry had had to reflect, during their ruined Astronomy test, that Hagrid and McGonagall had been removed by force from the Hogwarts grounds (which in turn required them to look after Grawp). Hagrid had escaped mostly unscathed, fleeing into the wilderness (or perhaps the Forest), wherein lurked monsters so horrible that no one went there willingly except for gryffindors.</p><p>But, the memory of McGonagall, who had little respect for Hagrid (there was, as the saying went, no love lost between them) paying for her sense of fairplay and common decency with a heart attack—the sight of her, borne away on a stretcher, was more than many could bear.</p><p>It now seemed to everyone that Umbridge was systematically stripping away everything that was even somewhat pleasant about Hogwarts life. She'd banned clubs and gatherings. She'd destroyed quidditch and the House points system. She'd ratcheted up the house rivalries into a stew of mistrust and dislike. She'd pitted them against one another quite the same as Dumbledore would say that Riddle did. And, she was a ready source for blame for the abrupt departure of The Twins—although, in truth, that was Harry's fault.</p><p>She'd turned Hogwarts into a chaotic mess for the entire school, and not just Harry. But, she seemed to have sought out particularly cruel ways of dealing with him, and she'd left him to simmer until he boil over. Half of the school united against <em>her</em>, and the other half knew to lie low.</p><p>This was how she'd tried to bypass Dumbledore. When he'd heard, he had come down, power rolling off him in waves, catching the attention of even those who had no training in magic to show them how strong Dumbledore was.</p><p>He was too late to help McGonagall, but Hagrid would not be that difficult to find. Harry hoped that Dumbledore found Grawp on the way. The centaurs shouldn't have to suffer Grawp's destruction of their forest; Hagrid was not here for him, and the burden of caring for someone who came of quite a different culture, and who spoke no English, was not one that could be laid upon the shoulders of just anyone.</p><p>Dumbledore had evicted the auror squad that Umbridge had needed to go against Hagrid, and had disappeared, himself, into the Forest. He was not seen again immediately.</p><p>With Dumbledore missing, Umbridge was in a foully pleasant mood—sadism, the pleasure of seeing others hurting. A different form for her usual entertainment. It put Harry wary of her—she was not the type to rest on her laurels. She would press her advantage.</p>
<hr/><p>There was still little time to dwell on important matters. Harry needed to get good results to pursue a career as an auror. He studied quite as hard as Hermione. Ron set to a similar task with grim determination, pausing only to practice quidditch.</p><p>Even training of magic was put on hold. Harry had barely the time to continue teaching Ron and Ginny Latin, and that was hardly a time-consuming exercise. It involved plenty of rote memorisation. Ginny was catching up to Ron because he lacked the time to study a foreign language, on top of everything else. The Defence Association was put on hiatus, pending knowledge of whether the Ministry would continue their sabotage into the next year.</p><p>In a free moment, Harry thought of Pogs, and set to creating a rather odd and complex working, cutting out circles out of a sheet of parchment, and transfiguring it into a sturdy sort of laminated cardboard, and then, after a moment's thought, scouring his memory for the knowledge of a third substance, neither metal nor wood, nor any substance known. An illusion of solid magic, translucent for the moment, in the shape of a coin. It looked like glass, but it wouldn't shatter. It was parchment, deep down, but with the thickness of cardboard, and laminated to protect it from weather somewhat. It was paper and metal and stone.</p><p>He made six of them, and then he wove them together, connecting them to the one that would be <em>his</em>. If he'd read <em>The Lord of the Rings</em>, he would have known to compare the idea, superficially, to the relationship between the Great Rings of the races of Middle Earth, and Sauron's One Ring.</p><p>Pictures were illusions, too, in a way. He was not unduly startled to find that it took little effort to "paint" a simplistic image on one of them—that of a castle turret, blood red on the clear blue of the coin itself. That was the easiest one. He was not an artist. In an ideal world, Dean Thomas would be set this task—he had the genuine talent for it. But, for stylised designs, this would suffice.</p><p>He'd thought about this for awhile, coming to the conclusion that, just as they called "Dumbledore's Army" the "D.A." to avoid calling undue attention to their activities. so too was it essential to hide the identities of this select group of trusted high-ranking members behind another veil of vagueness. There was quite a lot of symbolism involved, as well.</p><p>He made the coins, working on them when he felt that even <em>he</em> could not shove more information into his brain. He did not tell anyone about them, for the moment.</p><p>In addition to the castle turret, there was a majestic phoenix, with its wings spread, a worm with that snoutlike tip of its head stuck in an open book, a moon with closed eyes and a thought bubble coming off it, and what no one he anticipated meeting in the next three years would recognise as a Groot. It was stylised enough to be taken for a bowtruckle.</p><p>His coin was left blank. There were options for what image might be placed on the surface, but he preferred the blankness of the glassy substance. Nothing could be made of it.</p>
<hr/><p>He finished with his self-appointed task in time to have them all in his pocket on the night of the final O.W.L., which was the one on the History of Magic. He'd thought that he could catch most of his fellow gryffindor fifth-years, at least, at the end of that final, and with finals out of the way, tracking down Luna would be easy. And, Ginny was a gryffindor, too, albeit in a lower year.</p><p>But, that wasn't what happened. Instead, Riddle at last made his move, during that brief moment when Harry'd fallen asleep in the middle of the exam. He'd decided, on balance, that History of Magic was an acceptable sacrifice for dragging Riddle out into the open, and ending the Ministry's denial. With any luck, he'd also be able to destroy the prophecy, ensuring that Riddle never could get a hold of it, and in a way that raised no suspicions. After all, Dumbledore must be right: Riddle had realised that there was a connection between his and Harry's minds, now. This meant that there was no safety to be had.</p><p>As Harry'd expected, sleep tore down all his defences. He emerged from his vision with a splitting headache, as if his scar were on fire. Ron clearly had a sixth sense for his distress, out of his seat and by Harry's side, already.</p><p>It was Ron who made Harry's excuses for him, guiding him back out of the examination hall into a purer, less-stuffy air that helped clear Harry's thoughts.</p><p>"A vision—Riddle on the move," he murmured. "He wants the prophecy, and he will be most astonished if I do not go to the Department of Mysteries to rescue Sirius," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He gave Ron a strained smile, but he was shaking, and more or less unaware of what was going on around him, as he fumbled for the mirror in his pocket. He was taking no chances. Sirius had said that he would have this mirror on him, <em>always</em>.</p><p>He leant back against the cold stone of the wall behind him, and ignored Ron hovering nearby, uncertain. "You can go back in, Ron, and finish your exam. I don't think I'll have the opportunity to finish mine."</p><p>Ron saw right through him. Harry hated when he did.</p><p>"If you are not returning to finish your exam, then neither will I," Ron declared, folding his arms, and settling in for a lengthy struggle to convince Harry to listen to him—</p><p>"Alright," Harry said. History of Magic was not a course integral to becoming an auror. They could afford to do not-as-well in this class. Harry glanced to either side in the hall, and then whispered to the mirror "Sirius Black".</p><p>Ron still looked stunned that Harry had not fought him in this matter, when Harry turned to glance back at him, briefly.</p><p>"Harry? What's wrong? Did something happen?" Sirius could not have made it plainer that he was doing his best to calm a racing heart, and seem cool and collected. Harry did not ordinarily contact him out of the blue.</p><p>Harry pressed a hand against his temple, and lowered the mirror again. "You're well?" he asked, surprised at how level his own voice sounded. "Are you at Grimmauld Place, keeping up the protections on the house?"</p><p>Sirius refused to be distracted. His eyes narrowed. "<em>I'm</em> well enough," he said. "What's wrong with <em>you</em>? You look like you've seen a ghost."</p><p>"Not being tortured by Riddle, then," Harry said, with a strained smile. "Good to know. Just a trap, then. Now, see here, Sirius: you are not to leave Grimmauld Place. Do you remember my warning?"</p><p>"That Stephen said that I'd die at the end of the year?" Sirius scoffed. Ron's sharp intake of breath was drowned out by a scraping noise, as Sirius threw the mirror down on the table, and there was a lovely view of the dark rafters of Grimmauld Place zooming by overhead, as it skidded across the smooth wood of what Harry thought was probably the kitchen table where Sirius and Stephen had first made one another's acquaintance.</p><p>Then, Sirius reappeared in the frame, frowning. "Well, it's the end of the year, and nothing has happened!"</p><p>"And Umbridge is still Defence Professor, although they call the position <em>curst</em>. Sirius, the year is not yet ended. Do as I say, and <em>stay</em> in Grimmauld Place. I will need your help in my evil plans to save the universe."</p><p>The attempt at levity failed. Sirius just glared down at the mirror. He'd tilted it at just the right angle to make himself look much taller than he was. Smoke and mirrors. Just Harry's sort of individual.</p><p>"I will protect him," Ron said, in the background.</p><p>"I know you will," Sirius snapped. "Only, I've been locked up in Azkaban, and quite unable to protect him, <em>any</em> of the times I should have, as your Mum felt the need to remind me—"</p><p>"Nor have I," Ron said, in his grimmest voice. "I have failed Harry every time that—"</p><p>"That's <em>enough</em>, both of you!" Harry all but shouted. "Sirius, <em>stay where you are</em>. I shall keep you informed. <em>Finite</em>."</p><p>The mirror went blank, and he shoved aside the horrible suspicion that he'd just made a costly mistake.</p><p>"Ron, we have to go to the Department of Mysteries and stop whatever Riddle's plotting. I'll need your help, and Hermione's, and maybe a few others…."</p><p>He wasn't sure, and let his voice trail off, already trying to plan ahead. Then, he realised what he was doing, realised that he knew none of the variables, and that planning was hardly his forte, anyway. "Here, Ron," he said, reaching out to slap the first coin into his hands. "You're 'Red Rook', because a rook was your piece during the chess game, first year. Keep it on you at all times. I'll be able to talk to you through it, if the connection's open. I'm in charge of that. Don't worry."</p><p>Ron opened his mouth to ask something, but Harry cut him off. The current crisis was more important. "I need your planning skills. You're our strategist; how would you go about infiltrating the Department of Mysteries?"</p><p>Before Ron could answer, another voice spoke up, as a figure stepped out of circle of orange that cut a hole through the air beside them. "About that," Stephen said. "You might want to cancel those plans, when you hear what I have to say."</p>
<hr/><p>Harry was no less stubborn than Hermione, Sirius, or Ron. He stuck by his plan, at last convincing Stephen to go away to ensure Sirius's safety. "If you are always there watching him, and ensure that you are never separated, then you could save him from any danger, surely, with that Sling Ring of yours," he'd insisted, and Stephen had, at last, conceded defeat, and, muttering about idiot gods, had gone away to Grimmauld Place. Harry quashed the suspicion that a conspiracy would arise, when he wasn't looking, between Sirius and Stephen, how to interfere with the plan.</p><p>It was too good of an opportunity to pass up—a chance to lure the impulsive Dark Lord from his hiding place, wherever that might be, to compel him to show his face, to give proof of his own resurrection. And, with the prophecy destroyed, he would have little cause to remain hidden.</p><p>Yes, perhaps it was also due in part to Dumbledore's current plans of shunning him—perhaps, he thought Harry so weak that Riddle would easily breach the defences of his mind, even from a distance—as he <em>had</em>. But, that factor was not about to change. Sleep was that state of being in which all of a man's barriers fall. There was no remedy for that. Dumbledore would just have to accustom himself to that risk, or sabotage his own cause, by keeping Harry in the dark.</p><p>Harry <em>hated</em> being kept in the dark.</p><p>There was a ready way back to the Ministry—one that he'd used before, and that recently. Too recently, he realised belatedly, but what other choice was there? Apparation, that he didn't know? A portkey, that he insufficiently understood? There was <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>Ron had found Hermione, and they'd both come to Umbridge's office. Harry had intended to call as little attention to them as possible. He'd given Hermione the token with the bookworm on it, intending to explain later. Neville had the plantman, Ginny the red phoenix, and Luna the dreaming moon. He promised each a further explanation, and begged Ginny and Neville to keep watch for them. He explained that it was urgent, that Umbridge not find them.</p><p>But, Umbridge was Umbridge, and she had been waiting for just such an eventuality. Malfoy was not an obstacle that Harry had foreseen. He took them by surprise, him, and Crabbe and Goyle, the ever-present flunkies, and Umbridge and hers. She knew with Dumbledore absent from the school, she could do whatever she wished. And, she had been waiting.</p><p>Worse, Ginny, Neville, and Luna were dragged into it. He shouldn't have sought for their help.</p><p>Had she known, somehow? What a paranoid thought. But, she called Professor Snape in, and there was a pause, as Snape met his gaze. <em>A moment of weakness, Potter?</em> Harry almost heard him ask.</p><p><em>A trap. A necessary counterattack</em>, he willed Snape to understand. <em>With Umbridge here in Hogwarts, sooner or later public opinion will turn against us as rabble-rousers, or the friction will tear the Wizarding World apart. We must be the heroes, the ones who act, even to our cost. They must see that we </em><em><strong>are</strong></em><em> trying to fight the good fight.</em></p><p>"What is he babbling?" Umbridge snapped. Harry blinked. Had he said something aloud? Snape sneered—it was a strange expression, after his few months of mellowness. Fake.</p><p>"I have no idea," he snapped, and whirled around, back out of the room.</p><p>Calling for reinforcements. Perhaps, calling for Dumbledore. And, Dumbledore <em>would</em> try to keep the war from beginning for as long as possible, to attempt to forestall it, as if he didn't see its inevitability. But, Harry did. And, the sooner Riddle had opposition, something calling his attention away from single-minded pursuit of his goals, the sooner they could make progress towards defeating him.</p><p>Unless Dumbledore knew something he weren't telling Harry. In which case, all this be on his head!</p><p>But, Severus Snape had claimed to have no further stock of veritaserum. That, too, was a gift.</p><p>"Where is Dumbledore?" Umbridge demanded. "How does he intend to overthrow the Ministry?"</p><p>There was a certain insanity to her gaze, a wildness, as if she'd gone beyond the bounds of caring about right or wrong. As if it didn't matter what they said. She'd hear only what she wanted to hear.</p><p>Understandably, she would not hear his protestations that there was no secret weapon, that Dumbledore had no designs on the Ministry, that You-Know-Who <em>had</em> returned, and that they should be focusing their efforts on him.</p><p>But, his thoughts were forced to abruptly switch tracks, as she said, with a glint in her eyes,</p><p>"Perhaps, the Cruciatus would loosen one of your tongues."</p><p>And, to Hermione's protestations that she couldn't do that because the use of the Unforgivables was <em>illegal</em>, she continued, "Cornelius doesn't need to know. After all, he doesn't know that I sent the dementors after that boy last summer…."</p><p>Ron somehow restrained himself from murdering her, then and there, at this confession. Harry's fists clenched—he did not even like to <em>think</em> of those creatures, but they did quite a bit of damage to his mind and his soul whenever they appeared, and he could little afford that.</p><p>"Who should it be first, I wonder…" she mused, and Harry glanced around the room, where the slytherins looked slightly disturbed by the thought of witnessing someone being tortured—or at least, Malfoy and Millicent Bullstrode looked vaguely uneasy. Perhaps, as if they even wanted to leave. "Perhaps, one of you should volunteer yourselves…you're known for being such a tightknit group, I suppose it wouldn't take more than a bit of suffering for any of you for the weakest link to break. There always is one. Probably the mudblood—"</p><p>Pure energy flooded the room. Harry felt his hair trying its hardest to stand on end. Hermione's expanded to five times its normal volume. Luna's whipped about her head, in the wind that was beginning to fill the room—currents of air? a gathering storm?—and Ginny fared no better. Only Neville looked normal, if a bit uneasy.</p><p>And Ron, of course, as he was the epicentre. Could he be any <em>more</em> obvious?</p><p>But, there were more pressing concerns than how blatantly supernatural Ron was at the moment. Umbridge's ultimatum had sent Harry's thoughts and plans, such as they were, veering widely off course. A moment of truth, a choice to be made.</p><p>"I'll do it," he whispered to the two of them, and Ron was desperate enough that he lost the anger that was building up the storm.</p><p>"Harry, <em>no</em>," he begged. "Let <em>us</em> handle this. You have said it yourself: pain is—"</p><p>"I <em>know</em>!" Harry hissed in return, turning back to Umbridge, who, for the moment, was content to watch them squabble amongst themselves. Ginny looked as if she might be having trouble breathing. The air was thick with tension, but the real problem was probably that Bullstrode was crushing her. Harry swept an imperious glare in that direction, and Bullstrode loosened the grip on Ginny's throat, just a little. Ginny sucked in a few, strained breaths, and Harry returned his attention to the topic at hand. "What do you propose that we do? Are you volunteering Hermione be tortured in my stead?"</p><p>Ron's gaze was hard as steel, as he glanced around the room. He rarely got <em>this</em> worked up about things, but when he did…watch out. That determination would pulverise mountains. A mere human could never match up.</p><p>"No," said Thor. "I am the strongest of us. I was not there for you, to help you, before. I will do this for you, now."</p><p>That was a bad idea, a very bad idea, and Harry knew it, although he couldn't place the <em>why</em>, immediately. It took a moment.</p><p>Then, he remembered. It wasn't the physical pain that had broken Loki. It was what had come after, the need to convince himself that working alone was the only path that would protect those he cared about. The need to <em>not</em> care, the heart of the mantra. <em>The only way—</em></p><p><em>No!</em> he told that corrupted corner of his mind. He remembered what Stephen had suggested—that perhaps his <em>love</em> for his friends and family would give him the strength to carry him through. He remembered the rut he'd fallen into, flowed through in safety, during those interminable detentions with Umbridge.</p><p>"I can take it," he said. "But, I <em>couldn't</em> take you being tortured. That's the whole point of the mantra; don't you get it?"</p><p>But, the pain of the Cruciatus was what had first unleashed Thanos's corruption from its bonds, deep within his mind. He saw the situation for what it was, now, even before Ron said,</p><p>"But, pain is what made you use it—"</p><p>Harry glanced at Ginny, whose eyes were very wide, and he knew that she wasn't demanding answers only because her mouth was covered.</p><p>Thor had thrown it into stark relief. Harry saw how it was, now. It didn't matter whom Umbridge tortured, as far as Thanos's corruption was concerned. The physical pain had been enough to break the barriers warding off the corrupted corner of his mind, before. The thought of the fall of Asgard, and the death of his family, had brought it into being to begin with. There was no real choice here.</p><p>It was as if, walking deep in inhospitable terrain, you came across what seemed a fork in the road—two paths that could be taken, both harsh, both heading in quite different directions, but as you picked one, and followed it, you saw that they quickly reunited into a single road. The fork was only an illusion. This was just the same. All roads led to destruction, to madness, to unleashing a force that he couldn't afford to let loose.</p><p>"Then, there is no good choice," he said, with a bitter laugh. "Witnessing your pain, or suffering my own—either way leads to ruin. What a fool I was!"</p><p>Thor paused. "And, what if you need not witness my suffering?" he asked</p><p>Harry paused, uncertain, as energy—electricity—gathered around Thor's body, as it had down beneath the school, when the Devil's Snare had nearly smothered Harry, at end of first year.</p><p>Harry's mind felt sluggish, as if to drag out the moment. Adrenaline was that force that made time seem to drag out. No one but the two of them, who knew to look for it, would know that that sharp electric shock was what made Crabbe let go of Ron, long enough for Thor to approach, and hit Harry, as hard as he could, over the head.</p><p><em>Ah. </em><em><strong>That</strong></em>, Harry thought, as he lost consciousness.</p><p>"What is the meaning of this!" Umbridge shrieked. To her, it must have seemed a mutiny. Before Thor could reach her, to attack, she'd cast that spell <em>incarcerous</em>, binding him in thick chains, which he couldn't hope to readily escape.</p><p>"What sort of friend are you, attacking someone who trusts you?" she practically screeched. He wished that he could cover his ears. He glanced at Harry. He knew he'd robbed her of what she'd really wanted—to make Harry <em>suffer</em>.</p><p>"One who understands the meaning of sacrifice. There is no use in torturing him, now," he said. "He is unconscious. Even a restorative spell will not wake him from this."</p><p>Head trauma. Stephen would be most displeased. But, it was necessary to ensure that Harry did not wake anytime soon. He seemed to have retained at least a <em>slight</em> healing capacity.</p><p>"<em>Ron</em>," Hermione whimpered. Both she and Ginny redoubled their flagging efforts to break free from their captors.</p><p>"Well," Thor said, throwing down the gauntlet. "I believe that you were making threats concerning torture."</p><p>Umbridge needed no further prompting.</p><p>There was a moment, when it first hit, and an unknowable time after, when it hurt more than any blow he'd ever received, full of fire and the sting of blades, and it was <em>everywhere</em>. But then, his heritage kicked in—that overwhelming part of him that <em>wasn't</em> human, wasn't mortal, and retained the ability to endure and bear through injuries that would incapacitate a human.</p><p><em>Show no weakness</em>.</p><p>Even the magically-intensified agony of the Cruciatus began to fall aside, breaking <em>around</em> him, as if repulsed. The electricity that was his birthright eclipsed its fire, and there was only the rain of blades, but he had always known how to take a punch.</p><p>Umbridge frowned, as if in disbelief, and he knew that she'd try that curse at least once more before deciding, as the false professor had last year, that he was an anomaly.</p><p>"<em>Crucio</em>!" she tried again, before he was ready. Again, a conflict, between <em>was</em> and <em>is</em>. Again, his heredity and birthright won out.</p><p>Umbridge understood that she couldn't break him. Hermione sobbed, nearby, as Ginny stared, with a sort of absent vacancy to her expression that made her look dispassionate. It reminded him of Harry.</p><p>Umbridge took a step towards Hermione, and Thor sought for a release from his bonds, but knew that he wouldn't find it in time. Umbridge knew that she'd been tricked, and Hermione would pay the price. But, if Snape were truly on their side, should not support, a rescue, have come for them by now?</p><p>And then, Harry stirred.</p><p>With his eyes still closed, he erected walls, as many and as strong as he could, around the corrupted corner of his mind. That was the priority. He knew what came next.</p><p>He glanced around the room, and put a hand to his head. He realised that his captors had left him be, with no need to watch him, once he'd lost consciousness. He dragged himself to his feet, noticed that Umbridge was heading for Hermione, and didn't think of what might have happened to Ron. Ron was in chains. That was as much as he had time to notice.</p><p>As Umbridge pointed the wand at Hermione, crying "<em>Crucio</em>!", Harry interposed himself, opening his seventh sense wide as he did. There was no need for awareness of the outside world.</p><p>He lost his focus the moment that the spell hit. But, he knew the Cruciatus Curse. He'd felt it performed by Riddle, and Quirrell, and Umbridge could not hope to match Riddle's level of hatred, try as she might. She just didn't have the raw power.</p><p>He regained his focus, reopened his seventh sense, studying the pattern of the spell—not to learn how to replicate it with the <em>other</em> sort of magic, but to know its nature. This was the spell that had damned Frank and Alice Longbottom, after all. He would never have a better chance to see how it worked.</p><p>He stared at the spell, a stout rope that split into thousands of wispy cords. He reached down the line, to the point before it split off, and nudged it back towards its originatrix. Back to Umbridge.</p><p>He closed his seventh sense, and was unsurprised to find himself on his knees. He barely noticed Umbridge's screams in light of the immediate, more pressing, concern. Malfoy was making to stop him. He pointed the newest wand in Harry's direction, and Harry pivoted on the spot, grabbing Malfoy's wrist, and wrenching the wand out of his hands.</p><p>"<em>Expelliarmus</em>!" he cried, and the phoenix feather wand he knew best leapt from Malfoy's hand into his. Malfoy stared at its progress, as if he'd forgot he was holding anything. The distance it had to travel was absurdly short. Harry stunned the momentarily immobile Malfoy, and then aimed a reductor curse, with some care, at Ron's chains. It was important to free the best fighter of them all, first.</p><p>He'd heard it for a while, but only now did he recognise the sound of Umbridge screaming, subjected to the power of her own hatred. It would last until she gained the presence of mind to stop it. Or lost her mind. Or lost consciousness. Harry was past caring which.</p><p>He flinched, and knew that Ron noticed, and followed his line of thought (or, at least, that part of it). Harry shrugged, and silenced Umbridge.</p><p>"I suggest you let go of Ginny," he said, in his pleasantest voice, to Bullstrode. Her eyes widened, and Ginny fell to the ground in a heap as the iron grip abruptly loosened.</p><p>"Harry! What the <em>hell</em> is going on?" she snapped, without missing a beat. "And Ron—how did he do that? And you (Harry, I mean)—I know you're tough—I always thought you seemed to be made of steel, but <em>Ron</em>—"</p><p>Meanwhile, Luna oozed out of her captor's grip, and the unknown slytherin girl looked more resigned than anything else. She lowered her gaze, almost demurely, and took a step back, conceding defeat. Hermione used Parkinson's moment of shock to drive an elbow into her gut, and then kicked backwards, hard, freeing herself. Crabbe and Goyle did not seem to know quite what to do with themselves, with Malfoy down for the count. But, they knew when they were outnumbered. They released Neville.</p><p>Harry gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, I'm not Superman," he said. "But, if you would still say that I'm made of steel, then Ron is made of adamant. He's the strongest of us."</p><p>Without bothering to explain further, he went to the fireplace, reaching for the floo powder, despite its adverse effects on him, when Luna said,</p><p>"But, if we're going to the Department of Mysteries, can't we just ride the thestrals?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. The Invasion of the Ministry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Ministry Six spring Riddle's trap.  Then, they get separated.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ah. The thestrals. An idea that would never have occurred to Harry, or, indeed, most normal people. But Luna had never been normal, and neither was Harry. He paused, and turned to her.</p><p>"Thestrals?" he repeated.</p><p>What followed was an impromptu review session of that disastrous class that Umbridge had interrupted. Harry hesitated, turning from the fireplace, to Luna, and back. But, thestrals would probably be less noticeable of an entrance. And, Luna was a ravenclaw. She might know best.</p><p>He managed, somehow, to completely ignore Ron's thoroughly sincere concern for his well-being, as they made plans to seek for the thestrals in the Forbidden Forest.</p><p>"They're drawn to the scent of blood," Luna reminded him. He <em>had</em> remembered that. But, he'd stopped by Gryffindor Tower following the last exam, and had retrieved the Sword of Gryffindor. If all else failed….</p><p>Harry took the opportunity, as they made their way, some with more understanding of why than others, down to the Forbidden Forest, to explain just what each of those tokens represented. "This way, if we become separated, I can still communicate with you."</p><p>"Shouldn't we have made it so that anyone could contact anyone else?" asked Ginny, still seething. She knew that some big secret was being kept from her, now. But, she knew better than to confront the Trio <em>now</em>. She would wait, but she would not forget.</p><p>Harry glanced at her, and had to look away. "No, that would be too complicated," he said. "Also, as I am the leader, and these were made by me, I'm the only one able to open the channels of communication. I don't think it would even work if I tried to make it work the way you describe. That's what muggle walkie talkies are for."</p><p>"Electronics don't work at Hogwarts, or places with high concentrations of magic," Hermione reminded them all, with exaggerated patience.</p><p>"I basically took the spell Hermione used to make those galleons, and tweaked it slightly. I didn't have the time to do anything else."</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes at this statement, but did not gainsay him. She must be thinking of what sort of use he intended to put these to, in the future. But, the five who bore these coins, other than Harry himself, were those he trusted most within the Defence Association. They were also the most promising. If anyone were to have a future in the front lines….</p><p>Still, he probably should have figured out a way to connect them to one another, other than the obvious bond they shared of being cut from the same sheet of parchment.</p><p>Hmm.</p><p>After the introduction to the way the coins worked, he had to attempt to explain the current phase of the plot. Ron was in charge of strategy. Harry was, technically speaking, leader of the expedition. He was the one skilled at winging it. But, Ron could read a situation, too, and figure out a more long-term plan. He could give them an outline, even now, a basic strategy, tips for not dying.</p><p>Harry told them the why. He told them that it was necessary to draw Riddle out of hiding—otherwise, they were giving him time to gain resources—knowledge, allies, a power base. He'd proven that he wasn't simply sitting idle as he focused on this one goal, and the Order was trying to fight both the Ministry and the Death Eaters. They were fighting on two fronts. They were the ones at a disadvantage.</p><p>Riddle would never pass up an opportunity for an end-of-the-year battle against Harry. He had, essentially, sent Harry a challenge, complete with meeting place and time. Perhaps, Harry shouldn't follow his instructions, but if he didn't….</p><p>Well, who knew what Riddle would resort to, then? Not to mention, he would then know that Harry had been learning occlumency. Suspicion would fall on the spy at Hogwarts, Professor Snape, and Riddle would redouble his efforts to break into Harry's mind. Sooner or later, he was bound to succeed, and do far more damage. Better to walk into a known trap, spring it, and put Riddle on the defensive.</p><p>He did not lay out the entirety of these thoughts—just a sketch, and there was hardly time to go into detail, regardless, but the others trusted his judgement—all except for Hermione and Ron, who knew the truth about him, and who couldn't help wondering how much of this plan was influenced by the corrupted corner of his mind. Harry had to shove aside his own doubts concerning that same quandary.</p><p>"Harry," Hermione said, eyes narrowed at him. "Are you <em>quite</em> sure you're up to this? How is your head?"</p><p>Sometimes, when Hermione was being particularly bookish, he wondered how Ron and Hermione had ever got together. At other times, however, a certain similarity of disposition made it <em>abundantly clear</em>.</p><p>"Do you mean from when my scar hurt because of Riddle contacting me from afar? Or from Ron hitting me over the head? That was quite the blow."</p><p>"Or how about <em>the Cruciatus</em>?" Hermione said, glaring daggers at him.</p><p>Harry glanced around. Neville was shaking at the mention of the Curse, and Harry winced. It should have occurred to him just how badly <em>Neville</em> would react to witnessing the Curse cast, the one that had taken his parents from him, but in the moment—</p><p>They were about one staircase away from the Great Hall. They were out after curfew, technically speaking, but that was as nothing next to the other rules they had broken, and intended to break. Not worth thinking about. Still, the absence of crowds meant that he'd have to drag Neville into this if he wanted to get out of discussing it. He sighed.</p><p>"I redirected it," he said. "And Umbridge, while she has hate in abundance, lacks the power and magical presence necessary to make the spell excruciating as Riddle's version. I am not about to go mad and attempt to conquer the world."</p><p>Ginny shot him a suspicious look at this, and he met her gaze, keeping his level, a hint, a plea for understanding. She bit her lip, and looked down, clutching her upper arm with her hand, as if it pained her.</p><p>Luna noticed none of this, and Neville was still shaking and pale, looking around, casting furtive glances around them, on edge. Well, he might be.</p><p>"Neville, this is a dangerous task," Harry said. "Lestrange will likely be there. You need not join us."</p><p>Neville straightened his shoulders, and seemed to be trying to still the shaking. That they were walking helped to hide it, anyway. "I'm coming, too. I'll do my part. I'm a gryffindor!"</p><p>Hermione sent Harry a decidedly reproachful glare, as if he'd just talked Neville <em>into</em> this, instead of offering him a way <em>out</em>.</p>
<hr/><p>Neville had a hold of himself by the time they exited into the cooling nighttime air. Dusk had come and gone hours ago. At least, Harry thought it had. He was never quite sure how long he was unconscious for, and Ron had hit him quite hard.</p><p>Harry reconsidered the merits of cutting open his hand with the Sword of Gryffindor, remembering what it had done to the mist within the locket. Who knew what spells were on it, indeed? Besides, he'd recently met with some success in making the material from which he'd formed those blades, way back in first year.</p><p>Hermione, as he was thinking things through, withdrew a Swiss Army Knife, and dragged it down the palm of her left hand. "Blood, right?" she asked, shaking her head in a flurry of frizz.</p><p>Harry blinked, staring at her. She sounded far too businesslike. Indifferent. He suspected that that was his fault. And Ron's.</p><p>As they watched, the four of them who <em>could</em>, the skeletal equine shapes of thestrals began to emerge from the Forest, drawn to the scent of blood. They gathered around Hermione, who stared straight ahead, looking stoic. Ron stood next to her, folding an arm around her, as if for protection.</p><p>"Something's nuzzling me," Hermione said, with a hint of panic creeping in, as Harry could tell by the slightly rushed way she was starting to speak.</p><p>"We will share a thestral," Ron told her. "It is safest."</p><p>"Ginny?" asked Harry, as if that were his cue. Ginny was the only other of them who couldn't see the thestrals.</p><p>"I still need you to answer my questions," Ginny said, almost huffy.</p><p>"I doubt you'd hear, over the rush of wind," he told her. She scowled at him.</p><p>"I play quidditch, too, you know," she said, shaking her head, and sending bright red hair whipping around her.</p><p>Harry helped her onto one of the thestrals, and then, after a moment's pause, mounted in front. "Hang on to me," he said, in a lower voice. "Ron is right to say that that's safest."</p><p>It was very rare that he was obliged to concede that Ron was right.</p><p>A glance around the Forest's edge showed that Neville and Luna had had an easier time of mounting their thestrals. Since they could see the horses, they were each able to ride solo. But, Harry didn't mind.</p><p>"Er—the Ministry of Magic, in London," he told the flicking ear before him. "If you've been there, before. You, and the others—"</p><p>The thestral spread broad, black, bat wings, then, and they were airborne in less time than it had taken Buckbeak.</p>
<hr/><p>They arrived at the Ministry a surprisingly short time later. It was true night, now, with a sky full of stars. Harry managed to ignore them by focusing on the task ahead, but Ginny would insist on trying to speak with him. He welcomed any distraction, but knew that the wind would swallow any reply he might make.</p><p>They stopped at the tollbooth, dismounting, Ginny and Hermione with the help of Harry and Ron. Ginny was quite pale, and Hermione's eyes were wide, but they were taking it better than he had any right to expect of them.</p><p>"Harry—" Hermione began, but just then, a tiny green dragon soared through the air, clutching an envelope.</p><p>Harry took no notice of Neville's gobsmacked expression, dropped jaw and all, or Luna's of mild curiosity. He took Cedric's letter with an appreciative pat on the head of the not-quite-living dragon, and tore it open, reading it as he walked.</p><p>Reinforcements were coming to the Ministry. They should be there not long after Harry and company. The missive suggested half an hour.</p><p>Harry kept this in mind, during the ride down to the Ministry, down the lift to the Department of Mysteries, even whilst they were trying to discern which of the doors leading off that central hub of spinning doors might lead to the Hall of Prophecies. He would not have thought to mark the doors they had already tried, even had he been thinking on such matters.</p><p>He closed the first door, one full of vats with brains floating in them, without giving it more than a cursory look. They studied the secrets of the universe here in the Department of Mysteries. He didn't need a label to know that that was the room dedicated to the mysteries of the Mind. He stumbled back out of it, shaking rather, trying not to think dangerous, counterproductive thoughts.</p><p>The next room they'd tried, perforce, had been worse, in its own way—a room with small scale models of planets, and the floor, walls, and ceiling full of stars.</p><p><em>It's only a planetarium</em>, he told himself. They'd gone there, once, with his class, on a field trip, back when he'd been attending an ordinary, muggle, school, and he'd had no idea that he was—</p><p>The third door refused to open, but the tension that had filled him bated only slightly (he was noticing a trend, here, between the Mysteries of the Universe, and the Infinity Stones), when he noticed in the room beyond the fourth door a wall of time turners, and a bell jar with a bird that hatched from an egg, spent an entire lifetime trapped within that jar, before dying, decaying, reforming into an egg again.</p><p>Time. Well, at least he had no personal experience with that one (…he didn't <em>think</em>, but he remembered the gaps in his memory, still).</p><p>He hoped that the next room wasn't dedicated to power, or reality, or soul. He glanced at Ron, to see whether he'd followed Harry's line of thought, but Ron didn't seem to have noticed.</p>
<hr/><p>Ron was thinking of other things. He gave them the sketch of a plan, when finally the door opened onto the right room, full of shelves upon shelves of crystalline orbs. Far too many places for the enemy to hide, far too ready for an ambush.</p><p>One to guard the door through which they'd entered, and one for the door on the other side. The other four must stay together. Harry would keep them connected.</p><p>Neville and Luna volunteered for sentry duty. Ginny refused to let Harry out of her sight. Which was also the case for Ron and Hermione. He knew that Hermione still suspected that there was something wrong with him. She didn't realise that they'd <em>avoided</em> the danger, entirely. He'd turned the Cruciatus back on Umbridge before it could tear down more than his breakwater barrier. The other was still intact.</p><p>But, there was no ready opportunity to convince her of this fact—not only was Ginny with them, but they had to stay on guard, and alert. Who knew when Riddle would spring the trap? Of course, Harry's scar wasn't hurting…he must not be nearby. But, Harry knew how to draw him out of hiding, he thought. Riddle wanted the prophecy, after all.</p><p>"Look for the prophecy concerning me and Ri—You-Know-Who," he told the others, and Harry, meanwhile, tried his hardest to remember the clues hidden in his dream.</p><p>It was at the end of a row, in a nondescript misty orb, just like any of the others. Harry stared at it, shaking his head at the indecipherable lettering. Bureaucracy was bureaucracy, he supposed, but he tired of initials.</p><p>He stared at that glass ball for a second or two, still considering the best course of action. Destroy it? No. If he destroy it straightaway, then Riddle would have no cause to come. He'd just have to avoid Riddle's traps long enough to frustrate the man himself.</p><p><em>Half an hour</em>.</p><p>He reached out, and took hold of the surprisingly light crystal ball. (Of course, it would <em>have</em> to be a crystal ball. It wouldn't be clichéd enough, otherwise, now would it?)</p><p>"Hard to believe, all this fuss over a crystal ball," he said.</p><p>Hermione scoffed. Divination still seemed a very woolly subject to her.</p><p>"Good boy, Potter," said a familiar, silky voice. "Now hand that over, and no one need be hurt."</p><p>Malfoy Senior. A legitimate threat. And, with him, the Lestranges. (Both, most likely, but Bellatrix was distinctive on account of being the only female Death Eater. She gave a mad cackle as if to confirm her identity.)</p><p>"I wouldn't have believed it, but the Dark Lord always knows!" she crowed. "Poor Potter. He had a bad dream, and thought that it was true!"</p><p>"And, what, this is a trap, instead? You're after this?" he raised the prophecy aloft, staring down the sunken eye sockets of five different masks.</p><p>"<em>Accio prophecy</em>!" cried Malfoy, but Harry's grip was deceptively loose. The thing barely moved. He should have tried the Disarming Spell. Harry was almost inclined to scoff.</p><p>"If your lord so desires this prophecy, he may come and get it himself!" he cried.</p><p>"There's too many of them; what do we do?" Hermione whispered. At least she wasn't frozen in place.</p><p>Harry took a moment to weigh his options. The Death Eaters here had doubtless been informed of events at the graveyard. They knew his tricks. And, he didn't have a free hand with which to shape the buckler, regardless. Could he last half an hour without Mother's love protecting him? Did it matter?</p><p><em>Mother</em>? he asked. Beneath his skin, a fierce stinging rose up. He'd forgot how much it hurt.</p><p>The wand he'd taken from Draco Malfoy was in his left hand. He cocked his head to the side, considering. They didn't know <em>all</em> of his tricks.</p><p>The prophecy disappeared to all sight, but he knew that it was still in his hand, and he suspected that Ron did, too. The prophecy was the Death Eaters' priority.</p><p>"Retreat, for the moment. Back to the atrium! Go!" he ordered the three with him, knowing that none of them would leave him. Sometimes, he thought that gryffindors were the worst friends to have.</p><p>"Where did it go?" screeched Bellatrix Lestrange. "The Dark Lord will not be happy about this! Find it!"</p><p>"He just turned it invisible—" Malfoy began.</p><p>"You can't turn objects invisible without a cloak!" she said, cutting him off. "He must have vanished it, the idiotic—"</p><p>"There's an easy way to find the truth," said another Death Eater. Harry knew what was coming. "<em>Stupefy</em>!"</p><p>They ducked in unison, and Ginny fired an impediment jinx in return. Bellatrix Lestrange casually avoided Hermione's full-body bind, and Malfoy cast a shield charm to deflect Ron's stunner. Harry stuffed the prophecy in his pocket, which, after all, was reinforced, and in that same movement, as if it were his intention all along, drew the Sword of Gryffindor. He glanced back at them, over his shoulder.</p><p>"Didn't I tell you lot to retreat?" he asked, voice almost casual. "We need to get to open ground. More space there. You're not abandoning me, you're giving me room to fight. Go on, now!"</p><p>"Harry—" Ron began.</p><p>"The prophecy is in his pocket!" cried Bellatrix. "<em>Accio</em> prophecy!"</p><p>"<em>Protego</em>!" Harry countered. He had no idea whether or not the shield charm should protect against something like that, so he infused it with some of the <em>other</em> kind of magic. Under his breath, he murmured, "<em>servo stellas</em>!"</p><p>"<em>Stellas serva</em>!" he whispered, next, pointing towards Ginny, the only one experienced with using the power boost. She grinned at him, momentarily forgetting the big secret she'd just discovered that he was keeping.</p><p>"<em>Expelliarmus</em>!" she cried, throwing Malfoy back several feet as the supercharged spell punched through his hastily erected shield charm. Bellatrix Lestrange looked back and forth between the two. Harry, meanwhile, had taken aim at the wall behind her.</p><p>Her eyes widened, and she had the opportunity to cast a shield charm before she was buried in rubble, along with the rest of the Death Eaters she'd brought with her. That wouldn't hold them long.</p><p>"<em>Now</em> will you retreat?" Harry demanded. The pure energy of his mother's love was building into an ever-mounting fire within his veins. On top of everything else, it was making it difficult to focus.</p><p>The four of them made for the door, but Harry could hear the rubble shifting aside as Bellatrix Lestrange rose to her feet. He didn't know whether she'd wait and try to free her fellow Death Eaters, or go after Harry and company.</p><p>"Do you feel up to a duel with Bellatrix Lestrange?" asked Harry of Neville, as they arrived at the entrance to the room. "Moon Dreamer! Neville! Let's go! Retreat to the atrium—there's more room there!"</p><p>Bellatrix Lestrange had opted to come after them, of course. Nor was she the only one.</p><p>Neville stood his ground. To an extent, that was admirable, and understandable: this was what he'd been training for all year—to avenge his parents.</p><p>Harry threw open the door, and, without looking, shoved Neville through. "Not here—not enough room!" he said, as if that were the only foreseeable problem with such a confrontation. "Go on! I'll be right after you!"</p><p>It was not a lie, but that was not what ended up happening. Hermione and Ginny understood that he was in earnest, and went through of their own volition, followed by Luna. Ron could not be convinced to leave him, however. Taking his oaths seriously, as always.</p><p>"Ron—" he began.</p><p>"Go!" Ron said. "I will cover your retreat. You are in enough danger as it is."</p><p>That was Ron all over. <em>Sacrifice is the nature of chess</em>, and all. But, he had a point—it was <em>Harry</em> that they were after. Not that he'd point that out.</p><p>He handed over the Sword of Gryffindor, with a wry smile. "The Sword of Gryffindor brooks no duplication," he explained, with a shrug. It was hard parting with it, but he knew that Ron—Thor—could make better use of it.</p><p>Harry trusted his judgement. Ron's sentries had not been any use, not when the Death Eater had already been entrenched, but it had been a good idea. They hadn't known.</p><p>He opened the door, expecting to find the central room—the hub with all of the doors. But, instead, he found himself in another, equally familiar room. He noticed that, noted first that there were two other doors to this room, and then braced his hands against the door, erecting a wall made of the <em>other</em> magic, covered in runes reading, roughly: <em>Let only Thor pass through this door</em>.</p><p>It was the room with the time turners, and that ever-respawning bird. It could have been worse. It could have been the one with the brains in wizarding formaldehyde.</p><p>Harry remembered the idea he'd had, back during the fight against Quirrell, in first year. Enchantments, to prevent the Stone from being stolen, or at the very least, used. There were such things as anti-theft charms, but—</p><p>Why use those, which had counters, when he had a whole other branch of magic at his disposal?</p><p>Perhaps, Hermione was right. Perhaps, the pain of his recent injuries <em>had</em> affected him. But, he thought he knew the pattern for it—had studied enough on the subject at the library for the wizarding version, had studied the odd spells on the Sword of Gryffindor, to have enough of the pattern to use. Focus and desire might be the foundations of magic, but that didn't mean you could get by just with those—especially outside of his spheres of influence: Illusion/reality, and combat (and now, somewhat, healing). He closed his hand over the prophecy.</p><p>Focus. Desire. None to take this from him against his will, no spells to affect it, or anything around it. A pattern of protection, infused with his mother's love, which filled in the gaps caused by his ignorance as to just how the Sorting Hat prevented the unworthy from drawing the Sword of Gryffindor to begin with. It formed a protective wall around the prophecy, that none could so much as touch.</p><p>How did you activate one of these prophecies, to hear it, anyway? If it were any sort of spell, it would bounce off. But, if it were a word of command….</p><p>Not that it much mattered. He fully intended to destroy the prophecy, regardless, before he left, tonight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Can Fate Be Changed?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ron stays behind to guard the Hall of Prophecy.  Harry tries to lead the Death Eaters away from everyone else.  Then the Order arrives.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were, as he'd noted previously, two other doors serving as exits to this room. Given that he'd expected to find the Room of Doors on the other side, he had no guarantee as to the layout of this Department of Mysteries, which seemed not to even follow any standard <em>magical</em> laws. He suspected that one of the lost variants of Hermione's World Opener spell had been used to connect the rooms to one another—one that didn't hurt him to pass through, and that he'd, therefore, never noticed.</p><p>He thus had no guarantee how far any of the rooms was from any of the others. Either of those other two doors might lead back to the Hall of Prophecies, just as this one did—but if it did, it would <em>probably</em> be through the door Luna had guarded. Hmm.</p><p>With potential danger imminent, he didn't dare to brave the distraction that would have been afforded by opening his seventh sense. He wished that he could stay there, until Mother's love had solidified into armour around him. At this point, he almost thought it might be better to let it form, to risk his three friends not-in-the-know discovering his secret.</p><p>But, the Order was on its way. That might include Dumbledore.</p><p>Or Sirius. It would <em>have</em> to include Sirius. Was it better to stay, or to flee? There were too many potential ways for Sirius to die—but he remembered what Stephen had mentioned that his future self had told Stephen about the Veil of Death….</p><p>He shook his head. For the moment, the best that occurred to him was to continue with his current plans, which were to draw pursuit away from his friends. Only give him a few minutes, and he would return for Thor. Thor was not invincible, as he well remembered.</p><p>He ran down the corridor, carefully avoiding all the unknown instruments, particularly those that he didn't recognise. Most everything in the room was stationed in shelves against the walls, which was something.</p><p>He gathered his focus and energy even as he set off, so that, by the time he reached what passed for an intersection, the place where a short alcove to his left led to a door set into the wall, and he was halfway to the door directly ahead, he could create a duplicate of himself to continue on the way to that far door, making a sharp turn to the left to the other door.</p><p>He'd infused it with enough energy that, if necessary, it should be able to make <em>one</em> other duplicate, itself. And, there was a lingering sort of connection between them, to let him know what it experienced, whether it encountered any Death Eaters, whether it needed to use that energy. He could even, under duress, feed it more, although that was far from ideal, especially the further away it went.</p><p>Duplicates were, if he thought about it, a bit like having a split consciousness. There was a certain degree of madness to it—certainly, no <em>human</em> was meant to contain so much information in his mind at once. He'd have to be careful not to overdo it. No more than three copies, hmm?</p><p>Particularly since he didn't want the Death Eaters to catch on.</p><p>The first duplicate continued to the end of the corridor, and Harry, the <em>real</em> Harry, threw open the door set into the alcove, taking a brief survey of the room beyond, and groaning. There weren't any Death Eaters, yet, but….</p><p>The Room of Space (as he could not help but to call it) was not an ideal location for any sort of confrontation. In fact, he needed desperately to spend as little time here as possible. It brought back too many bad memories, and prodded at that corrupted corner of his mind. In its own way, perhaps, it was worse than the Mind Room, which, knowing his luck, would be the next room he encountered.</p><p>He took stock. The door, across the planetarium and to the left, must lead back to the Hall of Prophecies—it must be the door that Luna had guarded. He sent a duplicate off in that direction, and headed for the other door, across the room, in the same place, but to his right, instead of his left.</p><hr/><p>The first duplicate found itself in the central hub (of course), just as Ginny, Luna, and Neville retreated back there from the Mind Room.</p><p>"Harry!" Ginny cried. "Thank God! I was so worried…but where's Ron?"</p><p>It looked away from her, back behind it, at the door through which it had come. "I'm sure he'll be along, soon. If you've been out wandering the other rooms, looking for us, he might even have preceded us to the atrium."</p><p><em>Not likely</em>, Harry thought to himself.</p><p>"We need to get up to outside, you know. The Order's coming. We just need to wait for them…."</p><p>"We don't even know <em>how</em> to get back!" Ginny said, sounding as if she were on the verge of hitting something, herself. "We weren't looking for the two of you—knew you'd do something stupid and noble. But, there doesn't seem to be a way out of here."</p><p>Harry's first duplicate thought about this. "Well, people come to work here every day. I suppose they have a map of the rest of this department, but this room defies all explanation. A map would do you no good. And, they could hardly go about flagging every wrong door, as Hermione's been doing."</p><p>And, she had been. The duplicate glanced around the circle, at the two or three doors already flagged with those flaming crosses. "Some other way out, then. And, they won't be expecting an invading force. Hmm. Well, Room of Anti-Logic, show us the exit."</p><p>To Harry's shock, the room spun around, again, and a door opened onto the darkened corridor of his dreams. Was that all it had required, all along?</p><p>"How did you know?" asked Neville, almost petulant, as he stared at it with wide eyes.</p><p>"He didn't," Hermione said. "It's sheer luck in play."</p><p><em>Unless you're using that seventh sense of yours</em>, her narrowed eyes silently accused.</p><p>"Oh, who cares <em>how</em>!" Ginny snapped. "Let's just get out of here before the Death Eaters show up. We still need to make sure that Ron got out!"</p><hr/><p>Well, at least the others were safe, Harry thought, as he threw open the door in the right-hand wall. But, it was highly unlikely that Thor was out of danger, yet. He'd want to make sure that the others had escaped, too….</p><p>He entered the room beyond, and froze at the sudden sensation of something tugging at him…calling him….</p><p>At the centre of the room, which was as vast as that through which he'd just passed, steps led down, in a manner reminiscent of an amphitheatre, sinking into packed limestone, and at the centre, a rounded archway, and over it—fluttering in an ever-present, non-existent breeze, with a murmuring of human voices—gauzy fabric, beautiful, shimmering as if it were cloth-of-many-colours when it was actually white. Thin and sheer, like tulle or organza, but somehow still too opaque to make out even what colour the stones were that comprised the archway.</p><p>The Veil of Death. And this, the Room of Death, where, at least once before, Sirius had died.</p><p>A few things happened then. The first was that Harry's second duplicate had almost made it through to the Hall of Prophecy, calling Harry's attention away from the Veil, when the Death Eaters burst into the Room of Space, and it was forced to take the offensive against them. It had neither Sword of Gryffindor nor basilisk fang, but it <em>did</em> have plentiful knowledge and experience with knowing how to fight. It did not hold back, as the Order would have. Something—perhaps the sense that Thor was in danger, which had guided him before—lent extra urgency and viciousness to its actions.</p><p>A reductor curse hit the first Death Eater, but even as it cast the spell, that copy of Harry was forming a weapon of its own, out of the <em>other</em> kind of magic. It threw one of the daggers Harry had once been convinced he would never be able to learn how to make, and struck home. It didn't stay to see whether or not that Death Eater survived the attack. It cast a stunner for good measure, and hastened into the room beyond, knowing that it did not bode well, that these two had made their way past Thor.</p><p>The second was that the first duplicate sent off the others, out to the atrium, slipping out of the lift at the last minute, and discovering, to its chagrin, that the invisibility cloak would not suffer itself to be duplicated any more than the Sword of Gryffindor did.</p><p>The third, and most consequential, was the glimpse that it had of the arrival of the Order, before the lift descended again, and it dissipated, running out of steam, as Harry slowly realised, somehow because of Harry's proximity to the Veil. Perhaps more important was that the relief team included such familiar faces as Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, <em>Albus Dumbledore</em>, and <em>Sirius</em>.</p><p>It had better also include an invisible Stephen, or Stephen was <em>dead</em>.</p><p>Meanwhile, the second duplicate found Thor, announcing its presence by casting a shield charm against Bellatrix Lestrange's most recent attempt to murder him, and then countering with a stunner. Harry doubted that she'd be out of the picture for very long. She had allies, after all.</p><p>"You should not have returned for me, Brother," Thor said, turning to look at the duplicate. "You will have thwarted my efforts to—"</p><p>"Then, I <em>didn't</em>," said the copy, spreading its hands wide, in a familiar gesture. Thor seemed to understand, bowing his head.</p><p>"A fake, again," he said.</p><p>"A solid fake, however," the copy said, glancing around. "Although I don't think I'd handle physical combat very well. Might I suggest a tactical retreat? I <em>can</em> get you out of here, and cover your retreat."</p><p>As if to underscore the similarity to that night that he'd almost died the last time, blood seeped through the fabric of Thor's robes. An idea occurred to the copy.</p><p>But first, somehow, it dragged Thor to his feet, and they made for the door, with that copy keeping a constant eye out. The Death Eaters were thinking that they were being stealthy, closing in. Bellatrix Lestrange was already on her feet. She must be their leader—she, or Lucius Malfoy, who was also easy to recognise, with that long, silvery hair.</p><p>Somehow, they made it through to the door to the space room (the nearer of the two), and the copy braced both hands against the door. <em>Let none pass through this door</em>, the runes on this barrier read. The Ministry would have to replace those doors, most likely. He didn't care.</p><p>The duplicates were nothing but illusions reinforced with fragments of mind shrouded in magic. It was possible he hadn't been able to make them, even, before <em>Thanos</em> had broken his mind into so many slivers that he felt he could detach them. He wasn't sure that Thor knew that they existed.</p><p>Well, he did, now. But, their nature of being made of pure magic meant that the duplicate in question could channel raw healing energy into Thor, sealing up a wound similar to the one across his chest that had once almost killed Thor, centuries ago.</p><p>But, the duplicate would dissipate. It was hard enough, holding it together until it could heal that wound. The Veil of Death was trying to divert his attention, and it was trying to ensnare anything it could find of his magic, of his soul.</p><p><em>The Veil</em>, he remembered from the mythology. <em>The barrier that separates magic and the supernatural from the physical world. It believes that I do not belong on this plane.</em></p><p>He had a purpose. He would not be dissuaded. He would not be distracted. Sirius <em>did</em> belong on this plane. Harry would prevent his crossing over to the other side, tonight. He would.</p><p>That other duplicate dissipated, fading out, as Thor watched. Harry's window into the room previous faded with it, and he became thrice aware of the Veil of Death, as if that schism in awareness had diluted its influence. It probably <em>had.</em></p><p>He fought the resignation, the apathy the Veil tried to enforce upon him, by dwelling upon Thor's wounds. His brother, nearly killed again, in a war not his own, defending him. The Death Eaters must pay. And, more even than they—</p><p>His mind came into a point of sudden sharp clarity and focus, as anger drowned out the Veil's siren song. It was still calling him (as the Void had once called him), but he had a purpose, a goal, and he would not be denied.</p><p>Thanks to Riddle's spell at the end of last year, or so Dumbledore had told him, Mother's blood flowed in Riddle's veins, even as it did Harry's. There was a commonality, there, like the coins he'd made from cut out circles of parchment. They were bound together, now, coming from a common source, and that created an exploitable gap in Harry's defences. But, there was an equivalent one in Riddle's. Harry could force his own message through.</p><p>
  <em>Do you desire the prophecy, the knowledge of what it contains? Then, meet me at the atrium in ten minutes, little wizard, and we shall see who lays the better plans.</em>
</p><p>A command, one that Riddle, in his anger, would not resist.</p><p>Thor joined him in the Room of Death. He glanced at Harry, staring as if he could tell truth from lies by sight alone. Harry shrugged, and waved.</p><p>"I got a bit held up," he said. "It reminds me of the Bridge—that Veil. I know that it leads to the Beyond—to Death. I think I was meant to come here, all along, if there be any such thing as Fate."</p><p>"Are you real, Brother?" Thor asked, making his way over to Harry.</p><p>"Real enough," Harry said, with a smile. "I know what happened to you, back there. You very nearly died. You should retreat, go above."</p><p>"Together," Thor insisted.</p><p>"Your presence here won't help anything," Harry said, in his mildest voice. "Riddle is coming—he will be at the Atrium soon. But, I need your advice, on any count. Stephen said that that Arch—the Veil of Death—is what killed Sirius in the timeline he knows. Is it better to stay in this room, or to flee aboveground, and be unable to help Sirius, when the moment comes, as come it must? They are here already, both factions of the war. Sirius is here. You are our strategist. What do you recommend?"</p><p>He did not ordinarily ask for advice from anyone, but this situation was also far too important for him to look at it impassively. There was little hope of Thor faring better, but it was worth the effort.</p><p>"You said that the Veil calls to you. It kills. You should remain in this room no longer than necessary. And—if you are not here, Sirius will see no reason to come to this room."</p><p>A glimmer of understanding. Protectors understood protectors best. "It takes one to know one" did not only apply to miscreants and those of ill-will.</p><p>"Then we shall go," said Harry, realising that he was still staring at the Veil. There was a sense that his feet would lead him in that direction without him knowing it, if he looked elsewhere, but its call was louder when he looked.</p><p>"It is like that Mirror back in first year," Thor said, with some horror. "Forget the Veil!"</p><p>As if he could. Thor gave him the speculative examination that gave Harry to know that if he didn't move, Thor would decide the best course of action was to hit him over the head. He moved, instead.</p><p>"Talk about something else," he begged. "Something to distract me."</p><p>"How do you know that the Order is here?" asked Thor, immediately. Harry made an attempt at a smile, and kept his gaze on his feet. He would know if he took a step down, into the amphitheatre. He would <em>know</em>.</p><p>"A duplicate," he said. "I don't remember if I used them before…well, you know. These are made of illusions infused with a sliver of mind. I can afford to lose little slivers of mind, after…."</p><p>He gave a bitter laugh. "But, before that, would I have dared such a thing?"</p><p>"You were not human, before," Thor pointed out. "I may have known you to use such tricks, myself. But, you were very quiet about your strategies, the last few centuries. I little understood what you said before, when we were still on speaking terms, and then…."</p><p>And then. Yes, Harry did not think that that was the appropriate subject to pursue at the moment, particularly not when it ended with death.</p><p>Thor cast about for something else to say. Before he could find it, the door from the Space Room burst open. Harry turned back to face that entrance, and Thor, for want of a better weapon, took up a defensive stance in front of Harry.</p><p>The door that was their destination burst open, and Harry knew, without needing to look, that this would be the Order of the Phoenix.</p><p>Which included Sirius.</p><p>Dumbledore came sweeping in from behind them, first, and Bellatrix Lestrange on the other side. They were closer to the "exit" than the "entrance", but the Death Eaters had arrived first, and Lestrange was a woman on a mission. Harry privately hoped that Neville hadn't backtracked to come looking for him and Ron. Or Hermione. Or <em>Ginny</em>.</p><p>"<em>Accio prophecy</em>!" cried Lestrange, again, and Harry cocked his head, as if he found her a mild curiosity. This, of course, infuriated her, which was sort of the whole point. But, before she could do something more violent, Dumbledore came to meet her, with a sharp, severe glance over his shoulder at Harry.</p><p>Ah. <em>Now</em>, he remembered Harry.</p><p>Ron grabbed hold of his sleeve, and began to tug him further away from the Veil of Death, but now Harry had cause to put up a fight.</p><p>"Sirius will depart if he knows that we are not here. Go!" Ron said.</p><p>He knew that Ron was right. That did not somehow serve to render the task any easier. It felt an abandonment.</p><p>Then, there was a moment after Dumbledore had ordered them both to <em>leave</em> (he was not speaking to Harry again, too), a moment that he almost missed, when Lestrange who was dueling now against Sirius, lashed out unexpectedly with some sort of nonverbal spell, and an odd, orange array flashed into view for a moment. It deflected or absorbed the spell, and Sirius took a step back, away from the Arch.</p><p>Only then did Harry see how close they had come to it. But, Thor would not let him dwell—he'd died, perhaps, too often for this one. Thor pulled Harry out of the Room of Death, and into the very worst of the Rooms that Harry knew. He stared around, despondent, and weak as a kitten, all of a sudden, at all those brains in their vats.</p><p>"I—" Ron began, but then Death Eaters burst in from an alcove door that, as the Death Eaters entered, led from the central hub room with all of the doors (although Harry was fairly sure that it would lead elsewhere, once that door closed).</p><p>Their retreat had been cut off.</p><p>"They are after you, and the prophecy," Ron reminded Harry.</p><p>Harry paused, bowing his head, to consider, and came to a conclusion. "So be it, then. The Sword, Ron," he said. Thor knew a cue when he heard one, and, with some misgiving, that he made no effort to hide, and what seemed quite a bit of perplexity, Thor handed back over the Sword. Harry'd need both for the coming duel.</p><p>The Death Eaters were after him, Harry thought to himself. He'd served as a decoy, once, but now all he need do was make his way to the atrium. Although the enemy would not leave Ron alone, Thor could almost always hold his own in battle—and the Order was just in the next room. But, Harry, on the verge of suggesting that Thor return, recalled their mutual adverse reaction to the Mirror of Desire, the tale that had brought his brother to this time, and decided that he much preferred to have him well out of the way of the poisonous effects of the Veil of Death. Even the Mind Room was better.</p><p>And, as the last Death Eater burst into the room via the hub, Harry stunned him, and slipped past the falling body into the central hub, barricading the door through which he'd just come with ordinary, wizarding magic. He thought that he was beginning to run low on energy, and reconsidered the plan he'd made (with only half of his attention!) to draw out Riddle.</p><p>But Dumbledore was just down here, a five-minute journey away, if the lift continued to function (and why would it not?). Thor was down in the Room of Mind, and his other allies—</p><p>What <em>had</em> become of them? He ought to ensure that they were nowhere near the atrium, when the battle began. With a brief wince at the hasty nature of his plan, but knowing he'd little choice but to press onwards, now, he turned to the door on the opposite side of the room, remembering his copy's actions.</p><p>"Show me the way out."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. The Senseless Sacrifice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harry seals away the <i>other</i> magic against Riddle's use, but at the cost of Riddle possessing him.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The others were safe, but the same could not be said for him. No one knew that he'd set this Trial by Combat up, save for him and Riddle. And, anyone Riddle might have told. But, no, he would not want a repeat of last year—to be shown up by Harry Potter, again.</p>
<p>The <em>same</em> Harry Potter, for once. It was not good, that that idea struck him as strange. But, he took from it what assurance it offered: that perhaps his spirit (or whatever you might want to call it), had at last settled upon a fixed form.</p>
<p>He shrouded himself in a different sort of invisibility, as he made his way to the atrium, with its rather condescending and ethnocentric statue of wizarding superiority, and hid himself in calm as he waited.</p>
<p>He realised, with that protective anger gone, just how foolish an idea this had been. At the time, he'd thought that the confrontation with Riddle was a traditional ending for his school years, (with the odd exception of third year). He'd known the supreme import of dragging Riddle out of hiding, splitting <em>his</em> focus amongst his goals, making an ally of the Ministry (or at least arranging a ceasefire, which would also rid them of Umbridge, necessarily).</p>
<p>But, leading him to the Ministry with a counter-call? To the extent that he came by choice, and not because of a misattribution of Harry's anger, he came because he had backup, in the form of his Death Eaters, and did not yet know about Dumbledore and the Order. But, if he have any means of keeping in touch with them, or if he scout the area first….</p>
<p>And, the most foolish matter—the one that made him realise that Hermione was right, that Umbridge's curse <em>had</em> made him a bit scatterbrained, or even just…<em>off</em>—was when he realised that he'd assumed that his ability to endure Umbridge's Cruciatus Curse perforce translated into a resistance toward whatever curses as Riddle might use. And, there was even <em>less</em> cause, on those grounds, for thinking that it would help him through the pain that came of Riddle's mere proximity. He wasn't thinking quite right.</p>
<p>He was thinking right enough to take off his invisibility as he waited, and <em>plan</em>. He did not want Riddle to surprise him. He kept his seventh sense open, as if it were the only one to matter. But, all of his plans were scattered upon Riddle's arrival.</p>
<p>Well, he was not the best at making plans, regardless. He had a few ideas—that was more important. He had the Sword of Gryffindor. Riddle could not possibly know what to do with that. And, he rather suspected that the Sword had secrets that remained hidden…for now. Even Dumbledore might be surprised by some of the things it could do. Whatever those were.</p>
<p>For now, Harry would stick with it, because he knew that Riddle had little regard for "muggle" weapons, and thus far more experience with wand-waving than either <em>real</em> magic, or close combat.</p>
<p>"I see that you possess the prophecy," he heard Riddle say in a sibilant whisper, through the excruciating pain caused by his mere presence. Why did his mother's love not neutralise—<em>defang</em>—the pain that came of proximity, now that they shared blood, after a fashion? "Hand it over, now, and I will let you and your little friends retreat unharmed."</p>
<p>Harry was pretty sure that he didn't believe this in the slightest.</p>
<p><em>Mother?</em> he asked, reaching for her familiar presence, calling through another of the doors than he'd used to bring Professor Snape to the cottage in the woods. He knew now that he'd been calling through those doors when he'd addressed his mother, all along. It was in how he could <em>almost</em>, but not quite, hear her response.</p>
<p>Did he need the armour for this, or was it superfluous? What good would it do against magic? Not much, he didn't suppose. It hadn't saved him from the Killing Curse. It probably would do just as little against the Cruciatus or Imperius Curses.</p>
<p>At least he'd had the sense to wait before attempting to make another of those familiar bucklers. Maybe, he should try a different kind of shield?</p>
<p>For the moment, he was defenceless, and unarmed. But, Riddle knew about the prophecy, even knew where it was. And, he could not retrieve it without Harry. Harry gave Riddle a cold smile. He knew that fact.</p>
<p>"Get it yourself," he snapped. That was a test.</p>
<p>Riddle was smart enough to realise that there was something more to it than he saw, and knew that Harry would never willingly give him what he wanted. But, the opportunity to grab the prophecy and leave before more could be involved in their fight was too good to pass up, of course.</p>
<p>"<em>Accio prophecy</em>!" Riddle cried, pointing at Harry's pocket, which he must have known contained the <em>real</em> prophecy, and not some manner of fake.</p>
<p>It did not, of course, so much as budge. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled it out, wincing and putting his left hand to his head as Riddle's rage increased the pain tenfold.</p>
<p>"I have terms," he said.</p>
<p>Riddle was not listening. He was instead chanting the same words over and over. Those words, of course, were "<em>accio prophecy</em>!".</p>
<p>"That is a fake," he accused.</p>
<p>Harry just smiled. He'd contemplated the idea of breaking the prophecy several times, but for all he knew, that would activate it. If you wanted to get something out of a glass jar, breaking that jar was an option, however ill-advised. He did not want to risk someone coming across him whilst the prophecy was being released, or some such, and having another witness. He would give the prophecy to Dumbledore, perhaps, when all was said and done. For now, it served as a bargaining chip.</p>
<p>Riddle didn't know how to react to Harry's smiles. But, he seemed to understand that Harry had one over him, and he <em>seethed</em>. A sort of mad wrath poured off him in waves. It stung something fierce, but Harry had been under the Cruciatus before. Even with Riddle much more powerful than he'd been at the end of first year, the mere presence of Riddle would not be enough to drive Harry over the edge.</p>
<p>Or, that was what he told himself.</p>
<p>He recalled that his friends were counting on him, and that was when he realised another foolish thing that he'd done: he'd left them out of his sight, below somewhere. He was considering what to do, whether he ought to use his coins to call them up (and ask them to face Riddle with him? Was that not the most selfish idea he'd ever had? This situation, like so many of the choices he had had to make, the sacrifices, was one without a good or right choice), when Dumbledore emerged from the grille barring off the lift.</p>
<p>Of course. Things could never be that simple, now could they?</p>
<p>Dumbledore was near the very top of his list of people who <em>must not know</em> about Mother—particularly following his behaviour all this year. If Dumbledore would not trust Harry, then Harry definitely had insufficient cause to trust Dumbledore. Petty? Perhaps. But self-preservation. Dumbledore had some very big secrets. Harry was sure of it. He made his effort to <em>belay that request</em>, offering Mother a sense of changed circumstance. She knew his emotions and state of mind, didn't she?</p>
<p>"Do <em>not</em> give him that prophecy," Dumbledore said, with an imperious glance over his shoulder at Harry. Now, he was treating him as if he were about five years old. Well, perhaps he shouldn't have broken into the Department of Mysteries….</p>
<p>No. There had been a purpose to this—to all of it. Perhaps, more purpose than he was consciously aware of. A glimmer of understanding, a fragment of memory, pierced through the bating, more intermittent, pain brought by the proximity of a wary, distracted Riddle. His focus was on Dumbledore, now, and his anger had been smothered in fear. Dumbledore, "the only one he'd ever feared". Hmm.</p>
<p>But, Harry remembered something, even through the remaining, clearer, haze. He ignored Dumbledore's command that he "stay put, and hide", but made no attempt to remove the animate statue guarding him. Such an open space! Perhaps, he should have picked somewhere more contained, or perhaps….</p>
<p>He took the opportunity to think through the barest threads and glimmers of a plan. The most important matter at hand—the one that had caused him to issue that wordless challenge to Riddle, to stoke his anger and draw him out—was a need to ensure that Riddle derive no benefit from Mother's blood.</p>
<p>He'd had to wait an entire year to address that issue, an entire year rife with the risk of Riddle indeed becoming more powerful than the wizarding world could handle. "Greater and more terrible than ever he was", as Trelawney had said.</p>
<p>And he'd tapped into some of that, to breach Harry's defences, to lull him into a sleep, unawares, in the middle of an exam, when sleep should be furthest from his mind. Sleep was not in Harry's spheres. It might be in Mother's.</p>
<p>He opened his seventh sense to its fullest extent. He didn't bother forming a shield. There was no need to see or hear. Dumbledore could be counted upon to have everything well in hand—just as long as Riddle didn't somehow tap into the <em>other</em> magic. Perhaps, he couldn't learn to use it. But, it wasn't worth the risk, to Harry's mind.</p>
<p><em>Mother?</em> he asked, that part of him that gave voice to thoughts stationed in a between place—in a doorway between mind and soul. Not a door to memory—he thought it led into the familiar living room, somehow. He knew that he couldn't hear any response she might give, but that she was nonetheless listening. <em>What do I do? Magic can be bound. </em><em><strong>Our</strong></em><em> manner of magic can be bound. Give me a pattern.</em></p>
<p>A pause. <em>If possible. Please.</em></p>
<p>He had never had cause to research bindings before he'd gone into exile. He knew that they must exist—those handcuffs!—but he needed a more permanent seal.</p>
<p>He was faintly aware of closing his eyes, but then a series of squiggles and lines appeared before his mind's eye. As with all patterns (or anything involving his seventh sense), it required a bit of work to try to make sense of it in terms of the physical world.</p>
<p>Riddle was in a circle in the centre. He had the sense that that was straightforward. It either meant to circle Riddle as he tried to work the binding, or that the magic would be self-sustaining (<em>infinite</em>, he thought in something of despair). It was a forever binding, made of magic. It seemed to glow white. That probably meant that it fed off any of the <em>other</em> sort of magic Riddle might try to use, before it could even <em>be</em> used.</p>
<p>What were the squiggles and lines doing? Squiggles, he thought, were a shorthand for magical energy. What were lines, again? Connections. They were all in different colours—all the colours of the rainbow. He frowned. That had better not mean what he thought it did. One infinity was <em>more</em> than enough for him, as he thought towards his mother with some asperity.</p>
<p>But, it made sense. To keep someone from using magic, bind it round with all the sorts of magic there were. Let nothing through a shield of the <em>other</em> magic, and repulse any magic that tried to come close. He <em>hoped</em> that that was the pattern.</p>
<p>But, he'd have to change it, somewhat—Riddle would notice before he'd finished, if he tried to bind <em>all</em> of his magic. Then, perhaps, he'd become aware of the <em>other</em> sort of magic when he would otherwise have remained ignorant of it. That was the most obvious way for this to backfire.</p>
<p>Afterwards, he would wish that he'd had the opportunity to watch the battle, which from what he saw of flaming serpents and tsunami, was nothing short of spectacular.</p>
<p>For now, he shut off his seventh sense as he thought through how to change the pattern he'd been given to fit the circumstances. Bind him subtly round with magic of the same sort as that which he'd stolen, to which he had no right. Seal it so that it fed off all magic (only as much as it needed), but hid from all eyes. How did you make such a bond?</p>
<p>Circles were ridiculously all-encompassing shapes, for being two-dimensional. They encompassed literally <em>everything</em>. He probably wanted a triangle, instead. (Afterwards, he wondered why his mind leapt to that conclusion, whether he might not have heard the old legend of the Three Brothers, after all, but that was much later.) Those were much harder to work with. He had to focus particularly hard for that shape, but it least it was stabler than a square. Since this was his mother's sphere, he'd have to attempt to use her style of magic, which was thrice hard.</p>
<p>He was helped by the fact that the Ministry of Magic was built where it was—in a place of power, with lots of ambient magical energy to draw on. He needn't drain himself. (But, he <em>would</em> have to ensure that he cut Riddle off from such power sources, if he could; the graveyard had been bad enough.)</p>
<p>He'd quite forgot that he'd never tried to channel such magical energy in this life. He swiftly discovered that human bodies were not meant to work with so much power at once. He was fairly swamped by it. But, he had quite a bit of recent experience with being swamped by circumstances around him. You wanted the wind at your back (most things, you wanted at your back) to speed a journey. He shielded the area in front of him with the ambient magic of the Ministry.</p>
<p>He did not realise until much later that it was full of death. He was drawing on the Veil to bind Riddle's magic. To cut him off from any off-world magic he might be able to train himself to use, before he became aware of it. And, the Veil was, likewise, not of this world. To the extent that magic had emotions or personality, it was offended by Riddle's existence, by the steps he'd taken to avoid his passage through it. When it understood Harry's purpose, it did the magical equivalent of bending over backwards to help.</p>
<p>But, Harry was too distracted by the muted pain of Riddle's presence, his scattering mind, and too focused with what remained of his attention, to pay much heed to the origins of the magic he was using. It was untainted, and that was as much as he cared about.</p>
<p>He caught glimpses of Riddle and Dumbledore's battle, but he kept his seventh sense closed, and thus learnt nothing of how to replicate them. He needed all of his mind bent towards his current task. It was why he'd brought Riddle here to begin with. He could not do this from afar.</p>
<p>At some point, he noticed a shaggy black dog sitting at his feet, serving as a second guard, keeping an eye on the battle, ready to leap between any attack and Harry.</p>
<p>"Stay behind me," Harry ordered. "I am about to attempt some difficult and unfamiliar magic, outside of my experience, and you must not become worked into it. <em>Stay</em>, for once."</p>
<p>He hoped his glare sufficiently conveyed his thoughts of how foolish Sirius had been, coming after being ordered to stay. He also hoped that Stephen was still here, watching.</p>
<p>"Stephen, stay out of my way, and don't let Sirius do anything stupid."</p>
<p>Harry stood from his hiding place, and spread his hands wide. He paused, scowling, as he heard the loud report of lighting striking, somewhere not far off. When had the storm rolled in? Here, in the atrium, they were closer to the surface….</p>
<p>
  <em>Bring up energy from the earth. And then, narrow its focus to Riddle himself. At the end, tie the ends together—like a knot, or the famed ouroboros. Infinity, hmm?</em>
</p>
<p>Somehow, perhaps only because the Veil was helping him, he narrowed down the focus of his spell to only Riddle, fixing him in a triangle-crosshair, outlined in black with an interior of green. There are two weak points in a finger-triangle. But, he managed to tie those halves together into a coherent whole, and then to draw it out into a true triangle. Just in time, too, as the sudden shift in atmosphere recalled him to Riddle's mind. Riddle felt the shift, the change in atmosphere, a change in his own awareness, and while he continued to watch Dumbledore for a split second, his focus was all on Harry. Riddle could <em>tell</em>, although he didn't know <em>how</em>.</p>
<p>He vanished.</p>
<p>"Stay where you are, Harry," said Dumbledore, and he sounded…afraid. That did not bode well in any world.</p>
<p>The Veil of Death was almost sentient. It seemed to know what was about to happen, and cast Harry out, but, in effect, three things happened at once.</p>
<p>That was the first. The second was a pain beyond anything Harry'd felt outside his dreams, which gave him no opportunity to erect new barriers, and crashed through the ones he'd erected back when Umbridge had captured them. He had no chance to even <em>attempt</em> to fight it off, before something attempted to weave itself through what he thought of as himself. There was nothing to brace himself against. He felt the corrupted corner of his mind awaken, keen and vicious as ever.</p>
<p>How disgusting! All that planning and debate to protect Harry from Umbridge's torture (Ron had knocked him <em>unconscious</em>; if only he were here to do the same now; was that thunder overhead?), but beating that <em>Toad</em> wasn't enough. It <em>would</em> have to turn out this way, wouldn't it?</p>
<p>Had he had the awareness for it, he might have taken the moment to appreciate the innate incompatibility of that corrupted corner of his mind, and the part of his soul that was tainted by Riddle. One sought for dominion and selective slaughter (genocide, of course) of those whom he felt unworthy. The other thought that restoring order to the world (saving the world) entailed indiscriminate slaughter, with no (little) discrimination amongst targets.</p>
<p>Between the battering, the shaking of the bars keeping that corrupted corner docile and contained, and Riddle oozing his way into Harry's soul (and the <em>agony</em> that accompanied it), there was no room for such thoughts. They came after.</p>
<p>For now, there was room for only one (some part of him, small and overlooked, noted that Riddle was fascinated by the process he was unwittingly bound up in), thinking: <em>The only way not to break, is not to care!</em></p>
<p>Perhaps, it would have been different had his friends been there with him, but Stephen and Sirius both were, and that hadn't stopped the triumph of habit and brainwashing.</p>
<p>Harry was too weak-willed. He'd been stronger, once, long ago, but, as he would reflect, upon returning to his senses, this was proof, if Stephen still needed it, that the mantra, and the corruption, would not be denied. Dumbledore was wrong. Stephen was wrong. Love was not the most powerful force in the universe.</p>
<p>For now, there were fireworks somewhere in the vicinity of his brain as Riddle and Thanos's mind-control fought it out. They were never going to get on. That did not mean that Harry-in-between appreciated having a battle fought inside him. For one thing, it was excruciating.</p>
<p>That, in turn, dredged up the sort of bad memories that fed the corrupted corner of his mind. He felt it win out, before the strain was too much for him, and he lost awareness. He hoped that Riddle was enjoying the mess he'd just dug himself into.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Love, His Guiding Force</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ginny meets possessed-Harry.  What is stronger: love or hate?<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Or, is this my shippiest chapter in this fic?  *shrugs*<br/>I still fail romance writing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The only reason he knew that there was a storm brewing, up above in the open air, was due to a personal connection with storms. Otherwise, the Ministry was quite soundproofed, enough that the natural noise of actual weather could not be heard here. He could feel a pull from the sky. He wasn't sure whether it was trying to take energy from him, or give it to him, or just to catch his attention. He was too far away.</p><p>Something was wrong. But, he didn't know what. Something had happened to Harry—he was needed….</p><p>Lestrange sent another nonverbal curse his way, and it bounced harmlessly off a shield. Well, at least it was a curse that could be blocked. But, he'd never build enough focus to find his brother at this rate.</p><p>"Ron, where's Harry?" asked Ginny.</p><p>Thor blinked at her, and shook his head. "You should not have come back here, Ginny."</p><p>She cast another shield spell against another attack from one of the Lestrange brothers. (Which was impossible to see through his mask, but Thor thought it was the one they called Rabastan; Harry had killed Rodolphus. He was fairly sure.)</p><p>"See, I'm useful," Ginny said, with almost a smile. And, straightaway back to the concern of the moment.</p><p>He questioned the wisdom of admitting that he knew a spell that might find Harry, if he could just maintain his <em>focus</em>. Wizarding magic did not work that way.</p><p>"Where is he, Ron?"</p><p>A sort of creeping unease accompanied her question. Sirius had gone—he was, now, nowhere to be seen, whilst Thor had been focused elsewhere. He must have followed Harry. Was this how he died?</p><p>Thunder pealed like a bell, upstairs, as if as a warning.</p><p>Harry liked his patterns; he liked to see them even where they weren't. Well, here was a pattern: whenever Harry left Thor's sight at the end of the year, he seemed invariably to end up dying. Often—more often than not, he'd also used the mantra, and then Thor would need to drag him back. But, if Sirius and Stephen were above….</p><p>But, there was always the constant, looming threat of the mantra.</p><p>"Ginny," he said, with the level, deeper voice that he seemed to default to, to show how important what he was about to say was. "Harry—wherever he is…he might not be…quite right. Do you recall what I said about what happened at the end of first year?"</p><p>She ducked another blast of reddish light, pulling Thor down with her. "Yeah," she said, hair in her eyes, which were covered in dust and tracks of tears. Was it that dust had gotten in her eyes, or was it concern for everyone…or fear? Ought he to burden her with the rest of it?</p><p>Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head, slightly, as if trying to figure out what relevance <em>that</em> had to do with anything. "What of it?"</p><p>"Umbridge and Riddle have taxed him greatly, tonight. It may have been…too much for him, as it was before."</p><p>He willed her to understand, and tried not to hear that little voice in his head (Harry's) telling him how terrible he was at explanation.</p><p>Ginny's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to tell me that I shouldn't go after him—" she began, and he could have sagged with relief, before he realised that she'd begun that sentence with the word "if". Ginny must <em>not</em> become involved, for more reasons than merely keeping Thor and Harry's secret. But, whom was he trying to protect more?</p><p>He should have told her. He should tell her. Harry was right: he didn't learn. Not from the mistakes of others. Not even from his own.</p><p><em>Are you ever </em> <em> <strong>not</strong> </em> <em> going to fall for that?</em></p><p>He shook his head, as if in agreement with the ghost of a question. "Listen to me, Ginny," he said, and seized her arm. He had a very strong grip, he knew, but he managed to soften it, somewhat, with the realisation that he might otherwise harm her. She was not made of adamant, or even steel. She was only mortal.</p><p>She couldn't escape. She twisted and jerked her arm, as if to free it, but he'd had the sense to grab her left, which removed even the claim that he was endangering her, keeping her from protecting herself, by incapacitating her wand arm.</p><p>"I owe you an apology," Ron said. "And, an explanation. Harry poses a greater threat, if he is not brought to his senses, than you can hope to defend against."</p><p>He meant not to let her out of his sight, until she saw sense, but the battle was continuing around them. Malfoy had brought more than only five Death Eaters, and the man himself had now entered the room. He was not an opponent to scoff at.</p><p>"And, you think you'll do better, 'cause you think you're <em>so</em> much older than I am?" Ginny scoffed, and gave another yank of her arm, after she'd subsided for a minute or so. Had he loosened his grip, she would then have escaped.</p><p>But, her <em>words</em>. He <em>was</em> far older than she, and that was part of why he stood a better chance against the possessed version of Harry. And, the longer he delay, the more likely Harry was to succumb. He didn't like to think of that..and how would he ever muster enough focus, having to watch his back against the Death Eaters, elude the notice of Ginny and the Order of the Phoenix, and try to find Sirius and Stephen, as well, to ensure that Sirius hadn't died, and made this all vain….</p><p>He knew better than to answer "yes" to that question, but didn't know what else <em>to</em> say. Harry would have known—he had a way with words. Thor did not.</p><p>"I have fought him before," he said, for something to say. "You have no prior experience as guidance."</p><p>She raised her head to glare at him, and gave another violent tug on her arm. "Let <em>go</em>, Ron! <em>I'm</em> the one of us better at magic, and you <em>know</em> it! Harry's been giving me private lessons—that's why <em>mine</em> was the only wand he supercharged with that spell, when we arrived. I'm not some damsel in distress, needing protection. And, I'm not ten years old, either. You really do take 'overprotective' to a whole new level. Can't you see that I can take care of myself?"</p><p>This argument was so like all of Harry's old arguments (<em>stop </em><em><strong>smothering</strong></em><em>, Ron</em>, the ghost of Harry's voice said) that Thor was momentarily stunned. Ginny took the opportunity to wrench free of his grasp, and stalked away.</p><p>He had never realised how fast she was, before.</p>
<hr/><p>Ginny knew that he was only trying to protect her. She knew that he was probably right, if he, having watched her progress through Harry's deathtrap, still thought that she was in danger. But, she didn't want to think that Harry was that far beyond her understanding.</p><p>Somehow, she thought she was different. Shielded. That he wouldn't hurt her. He'd said that they had something in common. And, even when she'd been possessed, she told herself, she would never have hurt Harry.</p><p>
  <em>Laid a trap for him, though, didn't you?</em>
</p><p>She kicked at the floor, as if it had been the voice daring to remind her of her own shortcomings, to attempt to drag her out of her infantile dreams and delusions.</p><p><em>Wake up, Ginny Weasley! This is the </em> <em> <strong>real</strong> </em> <em> world. If you think you can't be caught, you aren't on your guard!</em></p><p>Hermione would say that that was Harry's influence rubbing off on her. She would say it as if it were a bad thing, something needing to be fixed. But, the Harry Potter she'd idol-worshipped as a child was just an illusion. She liked this Harry better, anyway. He was more interesting.</p><p>And, they had something in common. That made him closer, more approachable. It meant that they were part of a group, perhaps a very small group, those to whom the horrors of hurting those you loved against your will was not a mental exercise, nor a nightmare, but a fact. Those who needed redemption.</p><p>She'd imagined that there was something about her, ever after—in her aura, if those existed. In her eyes, or her stance, or her attitude, that could be seen, but only by those who had suffered the same. But, to them, it was never invisible. "It takes one to know one", as the saying went. Even a possessed Harry would surely recognise it.</p><p>But, that wasn't <em>her</em> Harry. Maybe she didn't <em>want</em> whatever thing might control Harry to know that she was like him. Her footsteps slowed as she thought this. It was one thing for Harry to know, but whatever turned him against those he loved was no more a friend of hers than it was of his. Had <em>that</em> been what Ron had tried to warn her about?</p><p>No. He just thought her too weak to defend herself.</p><p>She glared daggers at the concrete underfoot, wandering aimlessly. She'd half a mind to go back to Neville and Luna, where Kingsley Shacklebolt was guarding them, high above, past the security checkpoint they'd passed through soon after arriving. But, she knew she wouldn't give him the slip twice.</p><p>Suppose she was needed, down below?</p><p>Well, she could at least see if she couldn't find Sirius. Or…Harry…he might still be alright. They didn't know for sure, and she had something of his.</p><p>Sympathetic magic. She drew out the coin, through which he'd said that he could guide them. She didn't think he'd remembered it, in the heat of the moment after the Death Eaters had sprung their trap. But, perhaps?</p><p>She stared at the coin, wondering what it was made of, or how he'd managed to etch and colour in that design of a red phoenix onto it. And, why that symbol for her? The phoenix was such a majestic bird…did he think that highly of her?</p><p>She and Harry had redefined the concept of "taking it slow". They'd never even <em>kissed</em>. Harry just always seemed to think that he'd scare her off, if he tried anything overtly romantic. In some ways, he was still completely shy, and awkward, and ordinary.</p><p>But…she cared about him, a lot. Was it really so arrogant to think that she'd be able to reach him, even if he'd been possessed? Ron was such a man of action—he thought violence was the only answer, to <em>everything</em>.</p><p>She remembered him hitting Harry over the head, back in Umbridge's Office, and paused. That had been to keep Harry from being tortured, because pain was the way past—</p><p>Something. Her heartrate sped up, as she began to connect the dots. It was as if she had all the puzzle pieces.</p><p>"Pain is the way—"</p><p>What was the opposite of pain, then? She sought for a concept—relief? comfort? apathy?—but pain was just something that either was there, or wasn't. The opposite of pain was its absence. Normalcy. Harry would never be normal.</p><p>She turned the corner, and stopped. She hadn't been paying enough attention to her surroundings. Rule number one to not dying in battle: pay attention to your surroundings!</p><p>But, the Death Eaters were all behind. There should be no danger.</p><p>The first thing she noticed was that his scar was bleeding. Even in the dimmer light of the corridor leading to the central hub, she could see the uneven streak of it, painting his face like darkened tears, like dye. But, she knew that it was blood, and not even just because more of it was still running from the scar, as if it wasn't a scar, but a still-open wound. It <em>hurt</em> seeing that blood—all that blood. And, she knew that head wounds hurt more than the same wounds elsewhere in the body (hadn't she heard it was because the head contained so many vital organs needing protection?).</p><p>Pain.</p><p>The second thing she noticed was that his eyes seemed to glow, if only dimly, blue. It was a very pretty blue, if you were the sort of person to go inane during a crisis, and notice completely irrelevant things. She had her moments of that, too. But, she knew that Harry's eyes were green. She'd put it in a poem when she was <em>twelve</em>!</p><p>"Harry? Are you—are you alright?" she whispered, in a contemptibly shaky voice. She hadn't realised that she was shaking, either, until she'd spoken.</p><p>His gaze snapped to her, from where it had been wandering the room. He did not seem to recognise her. Her heart plummeted to the bottom of her feet, at that. She cursed her own weakness. If Harry wasn't himself, that just meant that he needed her even <em>more</em> than usual. He'd saved her, back during her first year. She owed him.</p><p>It was more than a matter of debt and repayment that dictated her actions.</p><p>"Should I assume that you are speaking to me?" he asked, and his voice was familiar…but different, too. Deeper, perhaps. Harsher. Sharper. It reminded her a bit of how he'd sounded at the end of last year, and that gave her a pittance of hope, before she realised that hope would not save her, if she let it take the form of "there's nothing wrong".</p><p>And, he didn't know his own name. A chill stole up her spine, because <em>how, how, </em><em><strong>how</strong></em>? She shook harder than ever.</p><p>"You're Harry Potter," she whispered. She knew that he had better hearing than most. She knew that he'd hear her.</p><p>She considered making mention of Harry Houdini—whoever that was—but she didn't quite dare. This conversation seemed to brook no excesses.</p><p>He paused—stopped walking, and stared at her. She resisted the urge to fidget.</p><p>"You should introduce yourself. It's only polite," he said, with the tolerant air of an adult minding a very young child. She bristled, despite herself. But, this was <em>wrong</em>. He should know her. He should <em>always</em> know her.</p><p>She reached out for him, as if she couldn't help herself, saw her hand stretch out, through a field of vision strangely blurred. "I'm Ginny," she said, as if anything that would pretend to be Harry was worth her attention. "Ginny Weasley."</p><p>Polite curiosity met this reply. He turned sideways to lean against the corridor wall, as if apathetic. "'Ginny Weasley'," he repeated. He sounded thoughtful. "Any relation to Ron Weasley, perchance?"</p><p>She stared at him, eyes narrowed. It wasn't fair that he'd recognise—that he'd <em>know</em>—Ron's name, but not hers. Unless….</p><p>Ron had faced possessed-Harry before. Did it, perhaps, remember from one time to the next—even if Harry himself didn't?</p><p>He glanced at her outstretched hand. Dismissed it, as Harry never would have.</p><p>"He's my older brother," she said. Now, her voice was neither quiet nor tremulous. She was <em>angry</em>, and hurt, and it was better to yell and fight than to back down and cry like some five year old who didn't get the candy she wanted—</p><p>"Is he?" asked Harry, with a forbidding, secretive smile. She didn't like that smile. "But, he tells me that he was my brother, first. I don't suppose he told you that."</p><p>Ginny's heart skipped a beat. Harry <em>had</em> to be lying—but that was such an outlandish lie, easily disproven. Harry was too smart to use such a feeble, flimsy lie. Did that mean it was true?</p><p>"I see that he kept secrets from you, as well. Perhaps, <em>that</em> is what trust means to him." He gave her a rather cold, mocking smile, as if he knew even more secrets, ones that she couldn't even dream of. Perhaps, she'd prefer not to.</p><p>"You—You're not Harry," she said, taking a step back. She'd been wrong to seek him out, wrong to think that she could fix anything. She should have listened to Ron.</p><p>"Clever girl," he said, and that smile, with all its scorn, was now focused on her. She thought her heart might have fallen on the floor and shattered. She didn't quite dare to check. But, this wasn't Harry. It wasn't.</p><p>"I never claimed to be," he continued. He seemed to be losing interest in the conversation. He'd crushed her, knew it, and was going to head on to Ron, next. Poor Ron. Even if he <em>were</em> keeping a huge secret from her. Should she ask—? No. She knew Harry's skill at twisting words, and rather suspected that this stranger would be a hundred times worse.</p><p>"You should introduce yourself, then," she said, staring him down. Defiant, she hoped. Not defensive. "It's only polite."</p><p>He blinked, as if startled, and she thought: "maybe not as different as I first thought". He almost seemed to see the humour in the situation, what little there was. His eyes narrowed, reevaluating her, she knew. There was enough similarity to know. He gave her quite a different smile. It was cold, and feral, and reminded her of that time in Hogsmeade.</p><p>He bowed to her—a quite shallow bow, more a display of the act that he thought her of little threat, even as the wand that <em>Harry</em> had bought for her hummed with the energy that <em>Harry</em> had lent it. Had given her, to defend herself.</p><p>"My name is Loki," he said. She waited for a surname, but none was forthcoming. "The prince in exile," he added.</p><p>She swallowed, hard. "And Ron?"</p><p>She had to know what he would say. She knew that she should wait and ask Ron, after this nightmare was over, and Harry was back. But, she wanted to know what it (<em>not</em> he) would say.</p><p>"Thor Odinsson? But, our names mean nothing to you. I can see that. Tell me, does my <em>brother</em>, the Crown Prince, protect you as well as he did me?"</p><p>She could hear the bitterness in his voice as he spoke about this <em>brother</em> of his—one bordering on hatred. Maybe founded on pain. To him, she was just a curiosity. Not a threat. He humoured her because it amused him.</p><p>He needed someone to look after that blood still leaking from his scar. That had to hurt. It hurt her, just looking at it. But, she didn't dare to move, somehow—too intimidated by this <em>stranger</em> before her. Someone needed to bring Harry back, <em>please</em>.</p><p>A snapshot, sliced, as if by a knife. Back in first year, back when she hadn't been herself, but had made a last attempt to reach out to the only people she could think of who might be able to help her. Ron, and <em>Harry</em>. The way he'd looked as she'd turned away.</p><p>He hadn't given up on her. He'd gone down into the Chamber of Secrets to save her. And, she must not forsake him, now. She took a step forward, and…—what was it?—<em>Loki</em> tilted his head, as if amused and curious as to what she could possibly be thinking.</p><p>Harry, though. He had to still be there. Ron had brought him back, before. And, if…if there were any chance of a future for <em>them</em>, then she'd have to deal with this, sometime.</p><p>As if fighting some sort of magnetic pull, she stumbled towards him, and he watched, with no idea of what she was doing. She remembered that he had the Sword of Gryffindor, and a wand, and who-knew-what other tricks up his sleeves. But, she was not a threat. He watched.</p><p>She reached out, and took his hand, and he watched, frowning, as his other hand came, as if automatically, to clasp her left hand in both of his own.</p><p>"…Ginny?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and scrubbed raw. She glanced up to see that his eyes seemed to be glowing a sort of aqua, turquoise colour. The scar was bleeding more profusely than ever.</p><p>"I'm not leaving you, Harry," she said. "We'll get through this, together."</p><p>That was, she reflected, probably the sappiest thing she'd ever said in her life. But, she still threw her arms around him, and hung on, as if for dear life, thinking of the thestral that she couldn't see, which she'd ridden. She clung as hard as she could, and wept. She wasn't even sure why she was crying. Perhaps, the night was all too much.</p><p>There were a few moments wherein nothing happened, when she thought that it wasn't enough, she'd never reach through to him, and then a hiss and a crackle, and a burning, stinging sensation in her hands, as if she'd dipped them in bubotuber pus. She held on still, even though they felt swollen and raw and blistered.</p><p>"You drove it off," he murmured. "Interesting. What is Harry Potter to you, Ginny Weasley? Why did it flee?"</p><p>She reopened her eyes, and straightened up, moving her hands down to grip his shoulders, again as if in defiance. His gaze blazed a brighter blue than ever. Had she done something wrong?</p><p>"What was that? What did I drive off?" she asked. She prayed for answers.</p><p>"A foreign soul. An intrusion. I believe it called itself 'Lord Voldemort'. I have heard of a wizard by that name before. But, I was unable to drive him off. And you—you're only a mortal girl. How—?"</p><p>Her heart pounded in her chest, and she knew that he must hear it, but for once—for <em>once</em>—he made no comment. <em>He must really want the answer</em>, she thought, another of those inane thoughts.</p><p>"You're mortal, too," she said. "And—and You-Know-Who is—"</p><p>He laughed, a familiar, low, bitter laugh. "I am a <em>god</em>, Ginny Weasley. I am not like you. Or even him."</p><p>She clung to him to keep herself upright, now. She knew that he'd notice any reaction, and consider it weakness. And, she mustn't let him know that she had <em>any</em> vulnerabilities. He might notice her grip, but it was better than falling to her knees, as she sensed she would have, else.</p><p>A god. A <em>god</em>? Was <em>that</em> the big secret? She could feel a bout of hysteria coming on. There was only so much one person could handle.</p><p>"What's Ron the god of, then?" she asked, a question two steps removed from their current topic. He blinked, as if thrown.</p><p>
  <em>Good.</em>
</p><p>"The god of thunder and storms, of course," he said. "A 'protector of humans'."</p><p>She didn't ask what he was the god of. It was horribly telling that he had an answer ready for her. But then, perhaps there <em>were</em> gods called Thor and Loki, and she'd never heard of them….</p><p>But, Harry was real, flesh and bone, and she could feel that, even now.</p><p>"You're mortal, now. You're human," she said, looking up into his eyes—they were turquoise again; that must be a good sign—she made her voice as desperately pleading as possible. "You're <em>Harry</em>, now. You can't do this to me. I love you. You must know that. And, I know that you love me."</p><p>She almost <em>felt</em> something shift. "Loki", or whatever, hesitated. He seemed unsure. She moved her hands back around his back, and pulled him close, and clung to him, as if he were her lifeline. She was sure that he'd brought her back from the brink of death, first year, although he'd never spoken of it.</p><p>A moment's pause, and then she felt his hands move to encircle her back, holding her close. For a moment, the illusion of safety, calm, washed over her.</p><p>"Harry, please," she whispered. "It's been a long night, and Sirius needs you. And Ron—or Thor, or whatever you want to call him. And, your other friends—Hermione, and Luna, and Neville. Even if not for me, you have to come back to them. You know Ron loves you, right?"</p><p>"I should think that he—" began that same voice, but it seemed weaker. Less certain. But, his gaze still glowed with that horrid blue backlight.</p><p>What did it take to kick that <em>thing</em> out? She'd tried <em>everything</em>.</p><p>She couldn't help it. She started to cry, again. She knew that she couldn't have lost Harry forever, but it was galling to think that the only way to get him back was to hurt him.</p><p>And then, she realised that she couldn't. She wouldn't be able to bring herself to hit him, even if she'd had the physical strength to carry such a blow.</p><p>"…Ginny?" he asked. His hands tightened around her waist, and he swayed where he stood, as if exhausted. "Oh, <em>now</em> what am I supposed to have done? What are you crying about?"</p><p>"You're—you're <em>insufferable</em>!" she cried, stamping her foot, and then looking back up at him. She blinked. Stared. "Harry?"</p><p>He cocked his head and gave her a stare, askance. "Who else would I be?" he asked. "And, what am I doing here? Dumbledore's fighting You-Know-Who up in the atrium—I should be helping, or I should at least break this—"</p><p>"I'm <em>so</em> glad you're back," she cried, burying her head in his shoulder. "I know it's stupid, but I thought I might have lost you forever."</p><p>He sighed, and shook his head. "Ginny, what—?" he began, but she'd been thinking (she was usually only about a step behind him, she was pretty sure).</p><p>But here, she knew that she had to be five steps ahead of him, because he didn't know the way. She leant forwards and kissed him. (He'd never get around to it on his own; he was too patient and cautious, and she was <em>so</em> relieved to have him back….)</p><p>She gave him the half an hour he needed to figure out what was going on (he could be so slow!), and thought that she was completely justified in melting in his arms when he finally realised that he should be kissing her back. They stood there for a moment, again, with his arms around her. Her heart was racing and she thought that, really, tonight had been the busiest night of her life, and perhaps worth all the pain and difficulty. Harry would always be worth it, to her.</p><p>"You'll never lose me, Ginny," he said. It was almost too quiet to hear, and he was even quieter when he added, "but, perhaps, I shall lose you."</p><p>She rather suspected that she wasn't meant to hear that.</p><p>He was still so close, but she knew that there was still danger behind them, and maybe above, too. She extricated herself with some difficulty, and much reluctance, and reached down to take his hand, instead. She knew how silly he could get—thinking that everyone would abandon him the moment he closed his eyes. That was, doubtless, what he meant.</p><p>"I made you cry again," he said, at last. "Somehow. I swear I don't get you, Ginny."</p><p>He shook his head, but he was grinning. But, there was a certain dimness to that smile, too. "Although, I still don't know how I came to be back here—or who you thought I might have been."</p><p>"You might have been Loki, still," she said, in her smallest voice, and she <em>felt</em> him freeze.</p><p>"Where did you hear that name, Ginny?" he asked, and his voice was suddenly strange, and dangerous.</p><p>But, his eyes were green.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. The Room of Lost Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The aftermath of the battle at  the Department of Mysteries.  Also, Harry and Hermione unwittingly raid the Room of Lost Things.<br/>(from Scrivener index card)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry didn't seem to realise that his grip on her hand was now painfully tight. Strong as steel, she'd said before. How true. How strong were the bones in her hand? She wasn't sure. But, she knew that he didn't <em>mean</em> to hurt her, and Madam Pomfrey was a skilled healer, if all else failed.</p><p>"Ginny," he said again, with calm that even <em>she</em> could feel was forced, "where did you hear that name?"</p><p>"I—" she said, wondering how <em>he</em> knew it, when Ron had suggested that he didn't remember anything from the time he was possessed—anymore than she did, herself. "Just now, when you weren't yourself—I asked you who you were, if you weren't Harry, and you said—"</p><p>She was sometimes one step behind him if he led the conversation, but he was never even a step behind her. "My evil counterpart made an appearance, and it told you that it was called <em>Loki</em>," Harry said. He sounded disgusted. She glanced at him to see that he was staring straight ahead, unseeing, doubtless thinking over what she had just said.</p><p>There was a pause, and then he said, "Well, Ginny, rest assured, that thing is <em>not</em> Loki. It's a corrupted corner of my mind, apparently complete with delusions of grandeur. How <em>typical</em>. I suppose I should have asked Ron more about—"</p><p>"That's not all it said," Ginny whispered, other things "it" had carelessly thrown out at her brought to the fore of her mind by the loud claps of thunder overhead. They <em>had</em> to be loud, to be heard even down here. He flinched at the noise, and turned to her, raising an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.</p><p>"It said that Ron is—it said that Ron—it was a god. And, that <em>Ron</em> is a god. And, his brother."</p><p>"A corrupted corner of my mind <em>would</em> be plagued by delusions of godhead," he said. "That thing isn't a god, no matter what it might think."</p><p>"But, Ron—" she protested, and waited for him to finish her sentence, to contradict what she'd been told. "I mean, it said he was someone called <em>Thor, the God of Thunder</em>." She did her very best to scoff. Harry wouldn't look at her.</p><p>"Ron can't be a god," she said, with a little laugh. "I mean, I grew up with him; I'd know! He's human. He's—he's afraid of spiders, and I remember this one time when I was five, he got stuck in the apple tree in the backyard, and was too scared to come down—Mum had to borrow a ladder, and Bill went to get him, and—"</p><p>"That was all before his tenth birthday, though," Harry said, shoving his free hand in his pocket. "Ten is one and zero, two powerful magic numbers, and also the sum of seven and three, the quintessential magic numbers. It's also lodged in a transitional point of—"</p><p>"Harry, this is <em>insane</em>! No way am I listening to what that thing—to what Loki said—"</p><p>It felt wrong, calling a person a thing. Maybe it helped Harry to cope with what happened, or maybe—</p><p>"Don't call that thing Loki," Harry said. Almost <em>snapped</em>. "I told you before: it's <em>not</em> Loki, Ginny. <em>I'm</em> Loki."</p><p>She stared at him, as he resolutely stared everywhere else.</p><p>"What?" she managed to ask, after a moment.</p><p>"This wasn't the way I wanted you to find out, but I can tell we'll not have anything like a civilised conversation until I've got that out of the way. Besides, I spent enough years in denial. Fitting, for the 'God of Mischief and Lies'—even if I'm not a god anymore. Hmm."</p><p>Was it possible to stop the universe until it decided to make sense again? Ginny needed for that to happen.</p><p>"<em>What</em>?" she asked, as if her lexicon had been reduced to varying inflections of a single word.</p><p>Harry gave her a wry, almost sheepish, grin. It looked a bit like the photo he'd suffered to be taken of him for the article in <em>The Quibbler</em>—the one where Skeeter used her evil powers to sway public opinion and have her audience eating out of her hand for <em>good</em>, for once.</p><p>"Very sorry, Ginny," he continued, with the most unapologetic grin she'd seen from him, yet. She frowned at him. The things she put up with!</p><p>"You expect me to believe that you and <em>Ron</em> are <em>gods</em>?" she demanded, yanking her hand out of his, and turning to glare at him. Somehow, the corridor seemed narrower than it had thirty seconds ago. He glanced down at his empty hand, shook it out, and spread his hands, in his familiar what-can-you-do gesture that made people want to hit him. Including Ginny, sometimes.</p><p>But she thought back—far back—to the summer before her first year at Hogwarts—all those pranks Harry had played on her.</p><p><em>God</em> of Mischief and <em>Lies</em>, though….</p><p>Ron took that opportunity to appear, as if out of nowhere. He'd come from the Room of Death, with the archway containing one hole-in-the-Veil. He'd almost snuck up on them: Ginny hadn't noticed his approach, and Harry had been distracted by the conversation at hand. But, he'd pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of nowhere, shooting her a crooked grin when he saw that there was no real threat.</p><p>"Ah," he said, sheathing the sword again. "Now, you will call me <em>paranoid</em>."</p><p>Ron eyed the sword with the wariness it deserved, but didn't seem unduly troubled by the thought of Harry with the Sword. Perhaps, because he'd sheathed it once he'd seen who had (almost) snuck up on them.</p><p>"Harry, are you well?" asked Ron. He turned to face Ginny, checking for injuries, and, upon confirmation that she was alright, returned his focus to Harry. Ginny was almost inclined to pout.</p><p>"Due to some rather extenuating circumstances, Ginny was able to call me back. 'Love, my guiding force', I can only suppose. You should probably hit me over the head when we get back to safety. Have you seen Sirius?"</p><p>Ginny blinked, staring at him, and wondering how he could sound so casual about it all.</p><p>"Ginny?" Ron asked, and she found herself now a bit irked, feeling as if she'd been dismissed in favour of Harry. (<em>But, he was my brother </em><em><strong>first</strong></em>, came the echo of that almost-familiar voice, in the back of her mind.)</p><p>So, instead of telling him not to worry about her, she threw back her hair, folded her arms, and rounded on Ron. "Are you really a <em>god</em>, Ron?" she demanded. Her eyes were narrowed, feet spaced in a battle stance. Tonight was one, neverending, battle.</p><p>"Where is Sirius?" Harry asked, almost plaintive, in the background, but that was lost in Ron's fidgeting, his sharp intake of air, the way he wouldn't meet her eyes.</p><p>"I intended to tell you, tonight."</p><p>"You <em>will</em> insist upon not learning from your mistakes," Harry cut in, as if he were required by script to contribute his lines in the debate (but good luck getting more from him). "Perhaps, we could have this debate later?"</p><p>"How is it even <em>possible</em>?" Ginny persisted. "I knew you when we were still really little!"</p><p>If it were possible, Ron's nervous fidgeting increased its tempo. "It is—a very long and complicated story, one better told at Hogwarts, where—oh, look, Sirius!"</p><p>He could not have made it more obvious that he was casting about for any distraction. This was the best kind-Harry'd been sulking, and fretting over what might have become of his dogfather. But then, Ginny had also to wonder just how many other people knew these big secrets that had been kept from her, of gods and family and the true nature of Harry's oddity. Wasn't Ron her brother?</p><p>Was he? She had to admit, it seemed almost selfish, if what Harry (no, not Harry, a thing pretending to be someone Harry used to be?) had said were true—if Ron were a god.</p><p>She cast him a surreptitious glance, ignoring Harry fussing over Sirius, as if Harry were the one in charge of looking after <em>Sirius</em>, and not the other way around. Then again, Azkaban had done a number on Sirius, and if Harry had ever been a god….</p><p>Maybe they were crazy, instead?</p><p>Hermione was dating Ron. Did <em>she</em> know?</p><p>Ginny shook her head, watching the scene play out before her, but it was alright, now, they were safe, and maybe they could just go back to Hogwarts and forget all of this….</p><hr/><p>The Minister of Magic himself, as it turned out, had seen a reconstituted Riddle fleeing the Ministry with Bellatrix Lestrange, his right hand, and the only Death Eater of the ambush to escape Azkaban. Fudge was obliged to admit that he'd been wrong, and spent the past year slandering (and libeling) the true heroes of the situation—Harry and Dumbledore.</p><p>The tale of what had become of Umbridge during their absence was almost too gruesome to speak of. First, she'd gone under her own Cruciatus (that was how Harry had left her), and then she'd tracked them down to the Forbidden Forest, with the help of some aurors, and the curse had kicked in. How else could you explain her reaction to the appearance of the centaurs? They'd carried her off amongst a fit of her accusations of them being "dangerous, filthy half-breeds" of "almost human intelligence". Perhaps, it was in part the effects of the Cruciatus upon her mind. It couldn't be known.</p><p>Dumbledore had retrieved her (after the battle of the Ministry had ended, and the Ministry Six (as society and the press insisted upon calling Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Neville) had been returned safe to Hogwarts), and had returned to Hogwarts, with Grawp and Hagrid in tow. Umbridge was almost frothing with rage. Everyone gave her a wide berth.</p><p>They arrived back at Hogwarts at different times. Cedric Diggory served as escort for the stragglers who had escaped Kingsley Shacklebolt's watchful eye.</p><p>The Six got checked over by Madam Pomfrey, save for Harry, who was called away to speak with Dumbledore in his office.</p><p>Dumbledore took Harry aside, accepted the relinquished prophecy with the promise to hide it somewhere out of all knowledge. Phineas Nigellus was very nasty at this, eavesdropping as he was from his portrait, interjecting something snide to the effect that Dumbledore was humouring Harry's petulant childishness.</p><p>It occurred to Harry that Loki couldn't have been much more than the equivalent of a couple of years older than Harry was now, himself, when he'd died. He supposed he had no experience of adulthood to fall back on, to judge his own behaviour. Perhaps, he <em>had</em> been childish, but Dumbledore had kept vital information from him, information he needed for his plans for the future, information that could save his life—and <em>Sirius</em> had almost died.</p><p>Dumbledore had, as it felt, hidden behind Sirius as a human shield. Only Stephen (when had he learnt how to turn invisible? Harry would have to ask when they had time to speak, later) had kept a disaster—the disaster he'd warned them about, over a year ago—from happening.</p><p>Not Dumbledore. Not Harry and Ron.</p><p>Now, Harry <em>owed</em> him, but perhaps this could have been avoided, if Dumbledore had thought to bring Harry to the Ministry—not once it had entered its state of denial, but back in third year, when they were still in awe of Dumbledore. Back when Dumbledore had first mentioned the prophecy.</p><p>Harry reminded himself, only half-listening to Dumbledore's apologies, whose sincerity he couldn't judge, regardless, that he was trying to be more grateful. He would just celebrate the fact that Sirius was still alive, and that the future could be changed. Perhaps, they stood a chance against <em>Thanos</em>, after all.</p><hr/><p>Ginny was not distant or cold to him following the Incident at the Ministry, when he rather had feared that she would be. Indeed, she cornered him almost as soon as he'd left Dumbledore's office, (it was the very next day), grabbing hold of his robe-sleeve as if he'd vanish otherwise. Her grip was so tight that he was fairly sure that it would tear out a patch of the fabric, if he moved. He decided to speak with her, instead. She looked haunted, and world-weary, but determined.</p><p>"I've decided. You can keep Ron. I have five older brothers—four without Ron or Percy. That's more than enough." Percy was still not about to own up to his mistakes. He stuck to the hard line about the Ministry's righteousness, and still wouldn't speak to his family. Harry hadn't realised just how much the Weasley family had shrunk until Ginny gave him the number. <em>Four</em> older brothers—"After all, he was <em>your</em> brother first, right?"</p><p>Ginny was fast, quick to adjust, unlike Hermione, who clung to as many beliefs as she could, still hanging on, even, to some she'd held before ever learning of Hogwarts. Looking for <em>logic</em> in magic. But, Ginny was more flexible. She hadn't come to terms with the revelation of last night, yet, but—</p><p>"I know you wanted to tell me," she said, with a dim smile. "I don't hold it against you. But, last night was—"</p><p>She trailed off, or cut herself off. She was right. There were probably not words to explain just what last night had been.</p><p>"I stuck with you," she said, as if this thought had just occurred to her. "I think I will, no matter what. It's like what I said at Hogsmeade."</p><p>"It won't always be that easy, Ginny," he warned her, sticking his hands in his pockets as if apathetic. She scoffed.</p><p>"'Easy'! You only say 'easy' because you don't remember! But, Harry—I know what I'm in for, now. I'm sticking with you. You keep talking about loneliness and love, and being alone—I'll never abandon you. No matter what. I can say that now. I <em>know</em>."</p><p>He did not know how to reply, except to take his hands out of his pockets, and stare at her. He would never understand Ginny.</p><p>But, perhaps she understood him, and perhaps that was most important. She'd be his guide.</p><p>He sighed, and wrapt his arms around her, and she leant her head against his chest, and they stood that way for quite some time, as if they had all the time in the world, because the world had worn them both down, but they could keep each other standing.</p><hr/><p>In all the activity at the Ministry, Harry had forgot that Hermione had wanted him to help her find the list with the names of the members of the Defence Association writ on it.</p><p>"We shan't be needing it <em>now</em>," she said. "Not with Umbridge at St. Mungo's, and the Ministry pulling out its hooks from Hogwarts, and an actual, competent teacher maybe teaching next year. Well, alright, probably not, but one who at least tries, and from whom we learn something, unlike Umbridge."</p><p>He managed not to say "Or Lockhart." It took quite an effort.</p><p>They spent over an hour forcing the Room to generate Room after Room. They started off with the Room usually used for Meetings of the Defence Association.</p><p>Harry tried to call the chest with the list in it, as he had called the whistle (he <em>had</em> called that, hadn't he?) on their first visit. No matter what he did, it refused to come. In some ways, this made complete sense—Umbridge, if she'd found the room, could have done the same thing. He'd ensured that the list couldn't leave that trunk as best it could, and then must have protected it so that it couldn't be summoned. That left one other option.</p><p>He needed to find where the Room kept its Real Objects. He needed the Room where the Real Things were. Hermione, when he said this, cast him a sceptical glance, but stepped back, washing her hands of the entire idea, and watched him pace thrice before the stretch of wall.</p><p>It gave him a Room unlike any he'd seen before. It was like a dragon's hoard, if dragons hoarded rubbish. A floor littered with papers and books and quills and ink bottles, lined with cabinets and sculptures and were those <em>weapons</em>?</p><p>Something hummed at the edge of his awareness. He ignored it. It put him on edge, and he needed to focus. He wished Ron's finding spell worked on this. Not that it mattered, as Ron wasn't here.</p><p>He and Hermione slogged through piles of parchment and contraband—what seemed to be illegal potions ingredients mixed in with forbidden tomes, lost wands, forsaken potions (including some curdled batches of Polyjuice) trying to get to the wall, where the furniture and weapons were. They then had to walk the perimeter of the room.</p><p>Hermione found it first, because, as Harry traveled along the wall to the side of the room facing the door, he grew ever more distracted by that mounting wariness. Something set his teeth on edge. At last, he could stand no more, and had to seek out the source. He did not even warn Hermione.</p><p>He should have warned Hermione. It came from a magical artefact radiating corrupted magic, with a sheen underneath of something more benign—<em>what</em>, he couldn't tell, as it was hidden under that corruptive overlay.</p><p>A crown rested atop a statuary bust of some vague figure Harry neither recognised nor cared to try. It was probably too worn down, anyway. The crown, by contrast, seemed in excellent repair, albeit with an odd, oily sheen to it. He reached out to it, as if he couldn't help it, and frowned, folding his arms, and opening his seventh sense to track down the wrongness of the diadem.</p><p>Said wrongness huddled itself into a single gem set into the metal. Harry's eyes narrowed, and he frowned. He'd know that magic, if ever he felt it. He'd know <em>that</em> spirit, if ever he encountered it. He reached out—</p><p>You write in a diary. You wear a locket, or a crown. He should be safe as long as he didn't try to <em>wear</em> the thing.</p><p>He transfigured the bust into a glass case, very like the one that had held a boa constrictor, but much smaller. He knew that it would be more difficult to carry, thus, but he was not having physical contact with that crown until he was sure that it was safe.</p><p>And, he wasn't sure that he trusted the ever-curious Hermione to hold herself back. He picked up the glass case, and turned back to see a beaming Hermione as she spun to face him.</p><p>"There you are, Harry! Where's the key? I found the chest!"</p><p>A pause. Her smile faded. "Harry, what is <em>that</em>?"</p><p>"A fragment of Riddle's soul," he said, ignoring her flinch. "I think Dumbledore had best be made aware of this."</p><p>He absently reached into his pocket for the key with his left hand, and threw it at her, too focused on the diadem to realise that he might be considered rude.</p><p>"Harry—" Hermione began, in a warning growl.</p><p>"I'll fill you in later," said Harry in his voice of false cheer, before turning and striding out the Room of Requirement, thinking that Dumbledore had best be made aware of this, as he hadn't the locket. Who knew what import he would make of it?</p><p>{end <em>Knights and Lords</em>}</p>
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